


Awe And Wonder I'd Embrace And The World Anew Again.

by wraithwitch



Series: Constellations [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Armageddon the Sequel, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Demons, Domestic Fluff, Drunk Witches, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, I promise it works out okay in the end, I use Capital Letters like a 14th C scribe with sleep deprivation, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Insanity, M/M, Most of the narration should be read in the Voice of God, Mostly just doom followed by fluff, One Chapter of smut, Self-Harm, Trigger warnings for suicide, bedlam - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-25 12:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 68,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20724377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraithwitch/pseuds/wraithwitch
Summary: Heaven and Hell conspire to kick-start a new Apocalypse using the Sword of War. How far are Crowley and Aziraphale willing to go to save the World and each other?





	1. Iphigenia

**Author's Note:**

> It's not essential to have read the previous two stories in this series, however they do each introduce secondary characters who both play roles in this tale. Also this is about 70k all told, so please forgive me if it starts a little slow...
> 
> The title is from 'Nova' by VNV Nation

The Iphigenia is far more than a London pub but it’s not what a connoisseur would call a true nightclub either. Like its patrons it’s betwixt and between and has found it likes it that way. 

There’s a wide semi circle of sleek bar-top, curving out from the depths. There’s a staircase leading to a gallery bar above that. In front is the main space and up against the windows is where the DJ sets up. The cloakrooms and the Gent’s are downstairs. The Lady’s is round a number of narrow corridors behind the upper gallery. (Management don’t care who uses which so long as they don’t get piss on the floor.)

The Iphigenia hadn’t purposefully set out to become a gay bar in Soho’s back-streets. It had originally been named for a ship in 1806; and despite what one might think, had historically been neither a bawdy nor a molly house - it had just been a pub - perfectly ordinary like a thousand others in London.

Perhaps it _was_the name at first: it was Classical and invoked tenderness towards the sacrificial nature of virginal youth and beauty that inevitably ended in death. Perhaps it struck a chord.

For whatever reason, a lot of Bright Young Things with tragic back-stories and far more tragic futures began to hang out in the Iphigenia in the late 1920s; by the 40s it was rent boys and prostitutes, by the 70s it was those who were dying and didn’t know it yet. By daylight in 2019, it was gays, media types, and daring metrosexual city suits, plus the odd lost lamb who knew no better.

By night the Iphigenia’s multi-hued flags flew proud and it was queer as all fuck - which was how everyone liked it.

* * *

The music is upbeat and loud, but not so loud as to make conversation impossible. She’s dressed like a wounded but battle-ready Morrigan: assassin boots, stockings, short skirt, corset, silver jewellery, black fingerless gloves that reach her elbows, real crow feathers and mock glitter-stars in her hair. Lips painted small and sarcastic in bloody hue; eyeliner enough to give Cleopatra pause. To accessorize her outfit her face is wearing an expression that is trying to remain calm but is swiftly realizing that she regretted leaving the flat, doesn’t recognize the music enough to dance to it, and knows she only has enough money for one damn drink. In short: panic.

Strictly speaking, this isn’t her space. But Ben’s her best friend and it’s his birthday: he wanted his party at the Iphigenia, he invited her, and so here she is. She will court death and destruction before she refuses Ben a request like that. Even so, she’s half an hour late by the time she pitches up to his little clique.

He stops mid conversation, turns to her and then slowly grins. “The Bitch of the West!” he says low and heavy with music-hall excitement.

She knows better than to antagonize him in his element. “So I am named!” she capitulates with a happily horrible grin. Then, sotto vocce, _“What the fuck?”_

He would kick her boots like a bratty older brother, but they’re her nice ones and he knows better. He gives her a left-handed half-squeeze round her corset. “You came!” he exclaims, because he really wasn’t certain she would. “And you look divine!” he adds, because she does, in her way. Benjamin has known Mercy since they were both eight. Depending on the audience, and who is voicing the story, they both fabricate who saved whom and why. One glance, and they know they’re both liars. But it doesn’t matter: they’re friends - accomplices - liars together. _That _is what matters. They have a habit of exchanging white roses (or the nearest equivalent thereof) on Valentine’s Day and getting drunk to obliteration with one another because they can’t cope with anyone else: it’s pathetic, they both agree, but they’re used to it.

“You’re late,” he admonishes quietly as he kisses her on the cheek. _“Needtatalk.”_

She smiles brightly because there’s always an ache in her soul when Ben kisses her in front of people. Idiot skinny boi who’d grown up into a ridiculously beautiful man. And she loves him - always has, always will - but that doesn’t stop the annoyance that he’d make a more gorgeous woman than she ever could. It’s the difference between 24carrat gold and a veneer of gilt: and it’s so unfair that of the two she’s the gilt.

Benjamin is trying to introduce her to everyone whilst simultaneously making excuses for why she and he must immediately run away for a minute to vape or smoke crack or clove cigarettes or whatever it is he’s talking about.

For a second some smart comment about ‘fag hag’ is about to fall out of her mouth because she thinks the situation warrants it. But Ben’s never called her that. She doesn’t know the conversational rules so aims for light irony whilst hoping a heart attack kills her before she finds out how appallingly awful she’s being at social interaction. “Oh, don’t worry,” she soothes after the introductions to the rest of Ben’s (four gay, three lesbian, two bi, two trans and one questing) friends have been made. “I’m his Token Straight Friend. If this,” she waves at them and the Iphigenia, “was a movie, _I’d _die tragically at the end!” That gets laughed or at least wryly smiled at, and she’s nominally accepted by the group.

She doesn’t quite know what to feel about what she just said - although uncomfortable is top of the list. She’s uncomfortable for another reason too: she has only ever sexually liked people in the abstract - or in fiction. When it comes to real people, to the removal of clothes and the onset of the flesh-bound desire-infused equivalent of ‘Proceed to push Tab A into Slot B. Repeat,’ there’s a lack of attraction: some sort of disconnect. She’s broken there. She receives no joy from it, so finds joy in return difficult to bestow. _(“I’ve never known anyone to take so little pleasure in pleasure,” _an ex once spat in her face.)

Apparently Asexuality is a thing, she’s learnt, but she’s also learnt that ‘Ace’ is not universally accepted within the Queer community and maybe it’s just easier to keep her mouth shut. Besides, the way she and Ben drape over each other gets them enough confused looks without her trying to add more labels to the mix.

* * *

People had a hard time figuring her and Ben out; they came up with all sorts of ways to describe their relationship, but for some reason ‘best friend who would burn down the World for you’ was never it - which was a pity, because that was what it was.

Aged eight she had returned from cleaning her teeth to find Ben crying in her room. He’d scrambled over a fence and crawled through a privet hedge and finally through a window to get there, muddy toed and curled beneath her duvet. He was in his pajamas: the ones printed with stars, moons and spaceships, crying in quiet little huffs, unable to draw enough breath to truly sob like he so obviously needed to.

Her first instinct had been to call for her mum, but she’d choked it back. Ben was her friend from two doors down and he’d come here to hide: he’d hate adult interference. She had knelt by her bed and poked him on the arm. “This is a _rubbish _sleepover. There’s no chocolate for a start,” she’d observed.

Ben hadn’t opened his eyes but his mouth quirked and he nodded his head because he could rely on her voice and he knew she was trying to cheer him up.

She shivered, and then with the simple selfishness of an eight year old, just got into bed, pushing Ben to one side so she could be beneath the duvet in the warm. She half expected Ben to object and perhaps kick her or start singing some stupid song she could murder him over if he made up one more repetitive verse (his usual tactic when she did something he didn’t like)…

Benjamin did none of those things. Instead he became a limpet: legs wrapped around hers and arms round her neck, just the wrong side of snug. She had no idea what was wrong; she just knew it must be bad - very bad. So she didn’t complain about his cold muddy feet or the snot and tears he was getting all over the shoulder of her nightie. She didn’t tell him it would be alright because she didn’t know if it would be. She just muttered, “Don’t snore,” and hugged him until his crying finally quieted and he’d fallen asleep.

She didn’t understand at the time what had happened to him; she just knew he’d been hurt and that an adult was to blame somehow. Children don’t cry like that - wracked and broken - over lost toys or schoolyard taunts. Children only cry like that when their World is ripped asunder. Ben never told her, but she worked it out. His stepdad had… made him do things. Adult things no child should be forced to do. It was the first but not the last time that she’d found him, ruined and miserable, seeking shelter in her room. She never asked questions or made him talk about it or complained it was past midnight and they both had school in the morning. She just let him curl beneath the covers, holding on to her strangle-tight, until his exhaustion became sleep.

Not many people understood Mercy and Ben’s dynamic, nor why they were such close friends, and they never bothered to explain themselves, not truthfully anyway.

* * *

He grabs her hand and hauls her upstairs to the back corridors near the Lady’s toilets; she follows because she always does.

Ben is wearing Doc Martins, exceptionally tight jeans, a well-cut charcoal-grey waistcoat with nothing under it, and a lot of eyeliner. Half his hair is tied up in a messy man-bun, the rest is left to straggle down his back. He looks like some sort of urban Legolas.

She sighs - gorgeous bastard. “Why’d you drag me up here?”

“Chris is here!” he hisses.

“Er… okay. Chris who?”

“Banana skin Chris!”

“Oh. Eww…” She scrunches her nose. Chris is Ben’s most recent ex. He’d seemed a perfectly charming example of Humanity until certain… habits… had come to light that were disgusting and unsanitary and Ben had dumped him and proclaimed he wanted to bathe in bleach. “Er, alright. What the fuck d’you want me to do about it?”

“Hex him!” Benjamin demands frantically.

“To what - spontaneously combust?!” She looks at the wide frantic blue of his eyes and sighs. “Fine - fucking fine - I’ll see what I can do. Happy?”

He pouts at her annoyance. “It _is _my birthday you know,” he reminds her.

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, and you’re a drama queen every other day of the year as well.”

He grabs her wrist and then startles as she flinches and bites her lip. His expression softens to concern and worry. _“Mercy…”_he admonishes, his voice almost a whine.

_I’m here aren’t I? You wanted me here, I’m here - that was the price. _It’s on the tip of her tongue, but that wouldn’t be fair, so she swallows the words back and gives a facetious grin. “I’m a bigger basket case than you!” she shrieks, wallops him on the arse and hares it down the corridor, because at heart they’re both eight year old brats and she knows he’ll follow.

She’s not disappointed: there’s a yell of, “You little _Witch!” _from behind her as she starts to laugh, trying not to trip over her boots on the stairs.


	2. The Thing With Boyfriend Trouble

Mercy doesn’t hex Chris to burst into flame but she does draw something geometric and rather complicated on a napkin with a pen she stole from one of the barmen and stuffs it into Ben’s pocket. _“Happy birthday,” _she mutters.

“What’s that?” someone demands, curiosity piquing.

“Phone number of someone cute,” Mercy lies. “Not me, obviously.”

Ben gives her a private and grateful look, knowing it’s something Witchy. They’ve been standing back to back against the rest of the World since they were eight: they always know when the other’s making shit up. “Precious!” Ben exclaims and kisses the top of her head in beneficence, getting glitter on his chin for his trouble.

“Whatever, birthday boy,” she bats back flippantly. “I’m going to the bar…”

Mercy likes that she’s generally getting eyed up for her fashion sense and not her body. (There was the girl who’d slapped her arse by the cloakroom - “Hell yeah!” - but that had come across as more Bacchanalian delight than threatening behavior and she’d laughed.)

It’s not really her space, but she’s grateful to be there. It’s restful; she doesn’t have to worry about how the night might end if she has one drink too many. (She has on several occasions had a drink too many; but those who prey have always scorned her, an instinct warning them she may be poison. She’s not aware of this, but it’s true nonetheless.) She’s been told she does the Murder Strut when walking home at 3am across insalubrious bits of London: the walk that says _‘Fuck off or it’s Death O’clock: you have three of my paces with which to comply’._

A slender figure catches her eye: for a second she assumes it’s Ben, but even Ben doesn’t manage that insouciant sort of swagger. _Dear gods, _Mercy thinks, _that’s even better than the Murder Strut. That’s some level of highly chaotic energy that loudly proclaims Untouchable Disaster Area… _She stares blatantly at hips and legs clad in tight black jeans, trying to work out exactly how one made legs move like that. Were his hips double jointed or what?

It’s only when he comes to rest at the bar that she bothers to look at the rest of him. It - it couldn’t be - could it? The posture at the bar, the rust-red hair, the angular suit jacket, the sunglasses, the fact the bartender serves him first ahead of everyone one else…

_Huh, _she thinks, and, _Well, shit.__The thing with boyfriend trouble and the singing Bentley. _It’s rare that she ever meets any of the things she chats to ever again - they vanish back to their World leaving her to raise an eyebrow at her own sanity in the cold light of day. She has an odd feeling akin to when normal people spy someone famous in the supermarket: to engage or not engage? She’s a little shy but figures unlike celebrities he doesn’t have to worry about bad press if he tells her to fuck off, so she approaches. “Didn’t think I’d run into you again,” she says over the music.

He turns sharply. “Gutter Girl! Like the hair.”

It’s smoky lilac now, semi-plaited and shorn short on one side; she likes it too. “Thanks. You doing alright?”

The blank disks of his sunglasses scour her. Under her black gloves are new scars, keloid, red and angry, and new wounds too, bleeding into the fabric.

She catches him looking and leans closer so she doesn’t have to shout. “Still haven’t got it right.” Her mouth twists as she wonders whether it’s wise to say something or not before deciding she doesn’t care. “I know what you did,” she hazards, annoyed. (_You won’t get it right, _he’d hissed at her, _not ever, _and she’d felt the Universe shudder as those words became True.) “You’re lucky I don’t take heroin out of spite.”

He gives an approving smile. “Spite’s a _fantastic _motivator… You won’t though.”

“I won’t,” she agrees with a roll of her eyes. That’s not a Miracle: they both know it’s just not her style. She’s annoyed, but not so much that she won’t talk to him. “You’re looking better.” He is too: confidence suits him much more than vulnerability. “Did you ever speak to…?”

“Yesss,” Crowley says coolly as if talking had been his plan all along.

She smiles. “Glad to hear it. Your old car still chatty?”

The Demon shrugs: he’d not really thought of the Bentley’s choice of music as communication before Gutter Girl brought it up.

She tips her head. “You should listen to her y’know.”

“You said that last time.”

“And you obviously didn’t,” she scolds, amused, “so I’m saying it again. I’ll have a double vodka - neat - if you’re buying.” She figured he owed her for ‘Gutter Girl’ - it wasn’t as if he’d been sitting anywhere better last they met.

He snaps his fingers and the bartender leaves the group he was busy serving to pour out a quadruple vodka and ice.

Mercy grins. “Cheers,” she offers. “I never did get your name.”

The Demon quirks an eyebrow. “It’s Crowley.” He turns to the bartender. “Couple of double whiskies. Best you’ve got.”

“Do you actually have wings?” She’s bolder than on their first meeting.

“Do you have any sense of self preservation?”

She snorts into her vodka. “No?”

He looks mildly disturbed by that.

“I’ve been crazy and mostly wanting to be dead since I was thirteen - that’s one hell of a habit to try to kick. This isn’t tragedy - this is just me being a low-grade fuck-up. If I were a better person I’d be fixed by now; or I’d be dead,” she adds, matter-of-fact. “Somehow I’m always stuck in between.”

Crowley looks startled, or at least she assumes that’s his expression; Mercy is starting to wish she knew a spell to banish sunglasses… She brightens. “On the plus side, it has allowed me to meet a lot of very interesting…” She’s not certain whether to say ‘people’ or ‘things’ - both could be offensive. She makes a flamboyant gesture, all long nails and silver jewellery, summing up the Demon who’s just paid for her drink.

He glowers at her sideways. “You know what I am.”

She frowns as if it’s obvious. “Yeah?”

He looks incredulous. “Is there anything you won’t talk to?” he demands scathingly.

She stills and her expression is dark. “Oh - yeah. There’s some shit I punch in the face ‘cos that’s not right and it can fuck off.”

“And put a Renault 4 with salami in its ears whilst it’s doing it,” Crowley suggests mildly.

She spits half a mouthful of vodka onto the floor because she can’t swallow her laughter. She was barely a month or two old when that song came out in’86, but in the days of vinyl such things could scar - and they did. She coughs and giggles. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she demands because no one, no one at all in their right mind quotes the Chicken Song. That way madness lies.

The Demon shrugs easily suggesting there could be any number of things.

She stops giggling abruptly. “Wings,” she recalls. “Do you have them?”

Crowley stares at her but she apparently takes that as an affirmative.

“Bitch!” she says, jealous. “I want wings.” She has them, in her way: tattoos that cover most of her back. The design looks to come via Aubrey Beardsley and too much coffee.

Crowley glances at her back above the corset. “You draw them? They’re nice.” He mirrors her compliment about his creation of Orion casually. “Very - er, Yellow Book - Salmone - Beardsley!” he hits upon at last.

“Mm, but they…” she twitches her shoulder blades, “they don’t…” another wrench of her scapula. “They _don’t,” _she finishes, the absence of unfurled wings loud between them.

Crowley knows about absences: how they hurt, but you can’t help prod at them like a bruise anyway. “What colour are they?”

“Black,” she says instantly. “But they sheen like raven feathers.” A sip of vodka and a small sideways look. “Yours?”

“Black,” he admits easily.

“Still got them?” she asks with a hopeful smile.

“Yep.”

She wars with herself for a minute, a minute that she used to fill with cigarettes. “Would - would you show me? I mean, if - if that’s not rude or something? I - I just - I…” She fiddles with her necklace, giving up on the explanation; it didn’t matter anyway.

The Demon looks stony and then shrugs. He stands close behind her. _“Close your eyes,” _he orders in that star-void voice she’d heard once before.

There is a violent displacement of air as a vast set of wings unfurl, reach forward, around, and almost across her, and then retract to be folded neatly away again.

Her legs feel unsteady and she thinks she wants to cry and never stop. _There’s a reason that Second Sight gives you San-Loss in Eldridge Horror Games, you stupid bitch… _She swallows all that down and bites her lip. “Sheened with starlight. Definitely one up on crow plumage.” She feels blessed and cursed for having seen those feathers in her mind’s eye - for having felt them for even an instant: it’s like having tasted Goblin Fruit. _“Piss off Rossetti,” _she mutters, grabs her vodka and downs half of it.

Crowley gives her an odd look.

She smiles, tears making her eyeliner run. _“Take that away from me and I’ll fucking kill you.” _She can’t - wouldn’t even if she could - as both they well know, but she feels deeply enough to make the threat, however futile.

They are still at the bar of a nightclub in full swing, but they are not quite in step with Reality: Reality is in fact nothing more than background noise.

The Demon looks at her and steps away, giving her emotions the space they need and taking the opportunity to collect the whiskies from the bar.

She sniffles and wipes her nose on her glove having nothing better. “You here with someone?” she asks.

“Oh, yeah, ange- uh… he’s seeing to his coat.”

She suddenly snorts a laugh that she hastily covers with her hand. _Of course he has an emotionally sentient vintage car. Of course he’s a Demon with midnight wings. Of course he’s in love with a bloody Angel. What could be more ridiculously perfect?_

He glares at her and she feels the outermost edge of his aura starts to burn hot.

“I mean no disrespect!” she offers hastily. “Really - really I don’t! It’s just… it… I - may I meet him?” she asks in a small voice, a question that if phrased in Latin would grammatically be expecting the answer ‘no’.

The Demon gives her a long look, so long that she dips her head and mumbles something about leaving before he gives a feigned shrug of indifference, transfers the whiskies to his left and offers her his right. “Come on then.”

She smiles crookedly: a Witch being led by a Demon to meet an Angel. Or to put it another way, an Angel, a Demon and a Witch walk into a gay bar… It was like the beginning of a cosmic joke - although Mercy couldn’t think what the punch line would be. She isn’t sure where she’d expected Angels and Demons to hang out; after all, even they must like to have a night off once in a while. And the ‘Phige is as good a place as any…


	3. Ill Met Philosophy

His boyfriend isn’t what she’d imagined. She’d sort of thought Crowley’d be with a burlier and more hipster version of himself - he was vain enough. She hadn’t expected a man with short blond curls and exquisite manners who was into Victoriana fashion. But one glance with usual sight, let alone Second, and she knew it was perfect. The way the Demon circled, always drawn in. The way the Angel looked back, beatific and joyous, his hands making little fluttering motions as if seeking to touch the Demon but denying himself at the last moment. It was a dance of stars and black holes, although which was which seemed to change from moment to moment.

It was _glorious_.

Her eyeliner’s well and truly fucked now, she knows. _Oh well, bloody worth it, _she thinks.

“Crowley,” the Angel is murmuring, “are you certain this is - this is…”

The Demon looks at him.

“She’s wearing a very unusual shift and stays,” the Angel finishes quietly and in a hurry as if that explained matters.

Mercy raises a ‘_Nah fam, you field this,’ _eyebrow at the Demon in challenge because she is not about to defend her perfectly acceptable clubbing attire to a supposed member of the Heavenly Host.

“It’s not a house of ill repute, it’s just fashion. Sumptuary laws went away a long time ago, angel,” Crowley says mildly. “Is she really the worst of the bunch?”

This forces Aziraphale not only to recall history but to look anew at the people surrounding him in the Iphigenia. It’s not Torture Garden by any means, but there is a certain… flamboyance of clothing and proclivity towards the showing of skin.

Mercy pulls a face, worried. ‘_WTF?’_\- she mouths at Crowley. What she wants to say is, _‘Is this the first time you’ve taken your boyfriend to a gay bar?’ _not to mention, _‘Please tell me your boyfriend knows he’s gay? I mean he has to, doesn’t he? Because he is, fantastically. And you’re bloody besotted with him…’ _But no one liked it when she said things like that so she’d learnt not to voice them. People didn’t appreciate questions - especially the raw and uncomfortable kind.

“Ah, well, when you put it like that.” He gives Mercy a worried look. “Are you sure you’re not cold, my dear?”

“Don’t fuss, Aziraphale,” Crowley warns.

Mercy wonders if that’s her cue to leave but she can’t quite bring herself to walk away, to step back fully into the Reality of birthdays and dancing and bill-paying and London life when she’s standing next two things with incredibly odd auras, at least one of whom has wings. “Do you have wings as well?”

“I must say I find that a very personal question,” the Angel huffs. And then to Crowley, “Really dear boy, what have you been saying to her?”

He shrugs, insouciant. “She knows anyway.”

“I don’t think…”

“You’re an Angel. A messenger of the Lord,” Mercy supplies brightly. “Which is hilarious, because I don’t believe in God - not a monotheistic perfect being anyway.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale could have sounded confrontational, instead he sounds hurt.

“The Ontological Argument is an utter bag of rats. The Bible’s a mess: if it ever contained truth of divinity it’s been translated through at least three different languages and edited twice by councils of holy men who claimed to be hearing voices. These days we don’t call that ‘holy’ so much as appalling scholarship and rampant schizophrenia.”

Aziraphale bristles slightly, but Crowley touches a hand to his sleeve. “Is that why you don’t believe…?”

She lets out a savage bark of laughter. “No! It’s because it doesn’t make any _sense_. Logically, I mean. If some power created the Universe, started it all up with a bang, fine, I’ll believe that. But once they’ve made it, they have to leave it alone.”

“Why?”

“Because if they’re an Interventionist God, or, fuck help us, one with A Plan, that makes them a bastard who’s using an infinite amount of Human suffering to justify a means to some sort of end. An’ I don’t want to have anything to do with them.” She quiets abruptly and drinks her vodka, her mind catching up with the fact that she’s just ranted at an Angel about theology. _Oh well done, _she thinks. _Abso-fucking-lutely fantastic, you stupid Witch!_

Crowley looks both amused and pained, Aziraphale just troubled. The Angel hasn’t spent a lot of time discussing divinity with Humans who don’t believe in the Almighty - he’s finding it a bit of a shock. He doesn’t understand how one of Her Creations, made with infinite care, could possibly look upon the beauty of Her Universe and not believe they were Loved.

“Mortal,” Crowley reminds him with a rueful little smile. “Free Will, remember? It’s different for you, Aziraphale. You _know_. You have Grace. They just have the choice to believe - or not.”

“But…”

“No buts. _Choice.” _He scowls as he says the word, thinking back across the millennia to what he’d told Eve. He’d posed it as a question, he’d always been good at those. _“Do you want to make your own choices? Or d’you want to be a spare rib in a Garden all your life?” _The question and ensuing conversation had been more nuanced than that, but that was what it had boiled down to. That and, _“Y’know, it’s not _this _tree the Almighty’s so worried about anyway. It’s the Tree of Eternal Life She really doesn’t want you eating from. I don’t know why She bothered to make it, frankly, if that’s going to be Her attitude…”_

They end up on bar stools around a pillar table in the upper gallery: it’s quieter up there and they can hear one another talk more easily. The topics meander from subject to subject and none of the liquid in their glasses gets any lower no matter how often they drink from them. After her little outburst on the subject of religion, Mercy thinks it safer to keep quiet; besides, she likes listening to them talk.

“Could you be a little more vague, dear boy, I don’t think I’m entirely lost yet.”

“You can’t _categorise _things…” Crowley argues as if the very idea is insulting, waving his arms and threatening to spill his whisky.

“Of course you can!”

He snorts. “Diogenes disproved that when he produced a plucked chicken and yelled ‘Behold a Man!’”

The Angel pouts, the Witch looks amused. “I think you’re being difficult…”

The Demon raises his voice. “I’m not being difficult - we were both _there_\- I’ve never forgotten the horrified look on your face!”

Aziraphale tries to shush him. “I wasn’t horrified, I was - I was appalled for the chicken…”

Both the Witch and the Demon snigger, but Crowley has more to say. “If you define things, you limit them, don’t you? I mean, some people define Angels as Humans with wings - the wings being a symbol of their potential Divinity - their struggle to overcome their baser nature and rise above.”

“I’m all for Humanity aspiring to…”

“You - Gutter Girl,” Crowley says imperiously, “turn around.”

She does so: half falling off her stool and pulling her hair out of the way to reveal the stylized wings across her shoulders.

Aziraphale stares. He has not seen many tattoos, especially ones wrought so delicately on so narrow a canvas. “Are those… engraved?”

She grins and hops back onto her stool again with a goblin sort of grace. “Yeah. My wings took about twelve hours. Think I started shaking around hour four. Ben asked the tattooist to stop and I didn’t know whether to thank or stab him. Stopping was great… but it meant I had walk back in and lie down under the needle again…”

Crowley twitches. “Why did you?”

“I wanted my wings, didn’t I? Needed them,” she says in a voice that knows she did and still does, but has no idea why.

The Angel and Demon both exchange glances.

“Ergh, you’ll give me tooth cavities,” she says mildly. She’s clutching a heavy silver pendant on a short chain at her neck - it looks like an elaborate shield - she doesn’t seem to be aware she’s doing it: a habitual gesture.

“Is that significant?” Aziraphale asks politely.

“What? Oh... It’s a planchette - y’know for spirit boards.” She takes a swallow of vodka. “Ghosts and stuff. The talking to thereof?” she adds unsteadily. And when that doesn’t seem to clear things up, “I’m a Necromancer. Well, Witch. Witch Necromancer?” she hazards. And that reminds her: “The hex you did,” she says suddenly, looking at the Demon. “Would you undo it?”

Aziraphale stares at Crowley who looks uncomfortable. “Hex?” he asks icily.

_“Intervention.”_

She pushes down her gloves showing the fresh ruination of her wrists. “Can’t you - can’t you let me be a nebula…?” she pleads. She wants to be moonbeams and starlight - she’s sick of being herself.

The Angel opens his mouth to explain that isn’t what usually happens after death, but the Demon holds up a thin finger and makes a complex shushing gesture.

Crowley sits straighter and is about to act when Aziraphale places a hand on his arm and this time his fingers aren’t fluttery but steady. “Would it be wise?”

“It’s what she wants.”

“But you…”

“I took away her _choice_, Aziraphale. I’m not sure that’s right.”

“Self destruction is a sin!”

“She’s not bloody Catholic,” he says mildly.

The Witch smirks despite the tears itching to further ruin her make-up.

“But the Almighty…”

“Has allotted a time and place to everything. And Free Will. If you think anything that, that…” He raises an eyebrow at her in invitation.

She shouldn’t give her name to a Demon but doesn’t care - she’s never liked her name anyway - why not give it away? “Mercy,” she supplies.

“Anything that _Mercy _can do will surprise Her then She’s a lot less Omnipotent than was ever made out to either of us.”

She picks up her glass, salutes them with it and turns towards the stairs and the dance floor without saying anything else. They’re so complete together she feels she’s intruding and doesn’t want to interrupt any more of their evening than she already has. That and she’s a coward: she doesn’t want to know if Crowley decides to remove the hex or not.


	4. Getting Home

Ben locates her a minute later within the crush and flow of revelry and absent-mindedly pulls up her gloves with careful fingers. “You found good company I see…”

“Mm,” she agrees vaguely.

“Have you been crying?”

“Nope.”

He frowns at her and holds her shoulder.

She gives a wobbly smile. “It’s fine - don’t ‘at’ me.”

“What have I told you about using your Tumblr voice?” Ben demands sternly.

“Not out loud and never at parties,” she parrots and pulls a face.

“Is it because he’s gay?” Benjamin asks solicitously.

She gives him a bemused look, because they’re in the Iphigenia - almost everyone is queer as all get-out. _“What?”_

“The skinny thot in the sunglasses. I’ve told you, eyeing up the pretty boys will only end in grief,” he teases.

“Shuttup,” she admonishes.

“Rather fancy his boyfriend m’self…”

“He’s an _Angel_,” she says as if that explains everything. Then, “I think I’ve had too much vodka.” She eyes her glass: it’s still full. “Happy birthday,” she says handing it to Ben. “Pumpkin time. I gotta go before I live up to my new name and land up in a gutter.”

“Stay!”

She shakes her head. The evening’s contained blood loss, social interaction, magic, chatting with an Angel and a Demon, and a lot of vodka - she’s had enough now; she’s tired. “I can’t. I’ll see you back at the flat.” She waves off Ben’s protests and staggers to the cloakroom to retrieve her coat: a full-skirted, high collared 1790s Scarlet Pimpernel number she’d sewn herself out of mist grey wool and a lot of pewter buttons with little skulls on them.

She pauses on the pavement outside the Iphigenia amongst those huddled and furtively smoking by the door. She looks in her coat pocket, checking she has her keys and Oyster card: all present and correct. She settles the coat more securely across her shoulders and adjusts the collar; the night’s grown chill.

“Drive you?” The call comes from behind her but all she can see is the gorgeously sleek expanse of the Bentley driving itself smoothly up to the kerb, singing at volume.

_“__Hex me, told her_  
_I dreamt of a devil that knew her_  
_ Pale white skin with strawberry gashes all over, all over…”_

“Bitch!” shrieks Mercy as if greeting her best friend, tripping over her boots to pitch up (carefully) on the running board and lean against the cool enamel of the Bentley’s paintwork. “Hello you lovely girl,” she says with a smile. “How’s things?”

_“On a gathering storm comes_  
_A tall handsome man_  
_ In a dusty black coat with_  
_ A red right hand…”_

Something about the acoustics of the Bentley renders Nick Cave’s voice sultry and smug. She laughs, reading meaning in the lyrics. _That’s my Demon, _the Bentley was saying. _Isn’t he splendid? _“Oh lovely,” she whispers, “and you know he utterly adores you too.”

The track changes again, the volume softer, almost anxious. _“You can stand all night_  
_At a red light anywhere in town_  
_ Hailing maries left and right_  
_ But none of them slow down…”_

She twists to look back at the Demon standing perplexed by the pub’s doorway: she’s trespassing - she knows, and it could go very badly for her - but the Bentley has things to say so she listens.

_“I seen the best of men go past_  
_I don’t want to be the last_  
_ Gimme something fast…”_

That song’s harder to work out, but she gets a flash of something, a dissonance: a memory the Bentley doesn’t like - is afraid of almost. Something that happened that the car can’t forget and worries about in the dark of the night as her engine cools. Mercy shakes her head. “I’m sure the Angel loves you too,” she offers. “It’s probably just how Crowley drives.” She’s never seen the Demon in his car but she couldn’t imagine ‘sedate’ or ‘leisurely’ were adjectives to associate with his driving. Then again, how fast could an antique Bentley reasonably be expected to go? She’s perplexed as how to better comfort the car. “My dad would have thought you’re gorgeous,” she says wistfully. “He was a rally-driver for a bit, back in the 60s - won a lot of races…” Her smile wobbles and she studiously wipes her hand under her nose and tries to remember not to wipe her eyes and smear away the rest of her makeup… But it all catches up with her and she’s crying and can’t stop.

_“__Only love_  
_Can bring the rain_  
_ That falls like tears from on high_  
_Love reign o’re me,” _sings the Bentley at the perfect volume.

Crowley has gathered Aziraphale (and coat) and now isn’t certain what to do with one inebriated Witch sobbing on his car.

“Oh! She’s _grieving_,” Aziraphale says softly, because Angels as beings of Love are rather sensitive to that sort of thing.

“People die - it happens,” Crowley comments neutrally, trying to ignore Aziraphale’s pleading look. “Not everything can be _fixed! _I bought her a drink, didn’t I? She already talks to spirits and things that go bump in the night - should I open up the graveyards for her as if it were Judgment Day?”

“No!”

_“Quite.”_

Mercy has regained an edge of composure. “Either of you gents fancy giving me a lift home, or thirty quid for a taxi?” she asks brazenly.

The Angel looks worried, the Demon amused by her daring. “Get in.”

“Where are we going?” asks the Angel.

“Shamblyland.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Lewisham.”

“Yeah, my treat,” Crowley mutters with a roll of his eyes.

The ride only takes about fifteen minutes which is horrifying - to the Angel at least: the Demon is driving, the Witch is passed out on the back seat, and the Bentley is happily singing _‘It’s a Kind of Magic’ _by Queen to herself.

“Is this how most - ah, social Juke Joint evenings end?” Aziraphale asks. “With a young lady unconscious?”

“Probably.”

“The injunction against self-destruction. Did - did you really…?”

He had. “Yeah.”

_“Why?”_

“Choice,” he says flatly. “You don’t like it, you make her sane.”

“I - I - if, well, I - it’s…”

“Not your remit? Not mine either,” says the Demon with an odd note of triumph. “But, there is always…” he trails off with a shrug.

Aziraphale knows what he means. Our Lady of Bedlam scares the Heaven out of him but she’s been an ally in the past. “Last resort,” he mutters. The Angel looks back at the sleeping Witch and, after some deliberation, Miracles an idea into her head.

The Bentley glides smoothly to a stop along a quiet residential street filled with small Victorian semi-detached houses and a family of foxes who are disporting noisily further up the road. “We’re here.”

“Where?”

“Shamblyland. Wherever it is she needs to be.” He gestures to the upper story of one of the little houses. “Up there - that one - that space is hers.”

“What do we do now?”

“Well I’m not putting her to bed. _You’re the nice one,” _he says sarcastically.

The Angel frowns and then snaps his fingers. The Witch is no longer in the car.

“Did you give her tartan pajamas?” Crowley asks with morbid curiosity. “She’ll hate that…”

“Would you just drive?” Aziraphale counters.

* * *

Mercy’s standing in a tattoo parlour in High Wycombe; it’s the same shop that did her wings, five years back.

“That’s nearly a full sleeve.”

“I know.”

“That’ll probably take four sessions.”

“Alright.”

He can’t read her expression behind her sunglasses. Add to that there’s not much of her and he can’t see any visible ink but what he can see are a lot of scars. He eyes her design again. There would be a strange Guildhall Shield on her shoulder overshadowed by a vast eight-pointed star. Chains and feathers fall from either side of her bicep down to where a serpent coils around her forearm. There’s lettering in a language he’s never seen before and across her wrist are the stars of Orion’s Belt. It’s a beautifully balanced and thought out design but it makes something in his brain want to bleed.

“You do know tattooing on scar tissue can be difficult?”

She gives a smile Crowley would be proud of. “Yeah. You gonna do it or what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bentley sings: Strawberry Gashes by Jack Off Jiil, Red Right Hand by Nick Cave, Something Fast by The Sisters of Mercy, and Love Reign O're Me by Pearl Jam.


	5. Old Habbits

It is a perfectly unremarkable Wednesday morning in London. Crowley is in his Mayfair flat <strike>taking care of</strike> terrorizing his plants. Aziraphale is pottering in his bookshop. But such tranquil domesticity is shortly about to change. Now, in fact…

They both receive messages that are dumped in their brains like frozen fish down the back of their collars to slither down their spines repulsively.

_The Revolution is not over. We will rise again. The time is now. War is upon us. All hail Armageddon._

“Nngk,” Crowley gags.

_Despite certain setbacks, we’re back on track! This war is ours to win, people!_

“Oh,” Aziraphale says very softly.

_We possezz the Sword of War! We will be victoriouzz!_

Crowley’s eyes open very wide, fully serpentine and deeply troubled. _“Fuck,” _he utters. Then he grabs his phone and dials the number of a certain Soho bookshop.

* * *

They sit on a bench in St James’s Park, both staring straight ahead and studiously not looking at one another. They’ve been like that for ten minutes. Neither quite know how to begin.

Finally Aziraphale looks at Crowley with eyes that are robbed of their usual vitality. "I was afraid that it would come to this." His hands, although prissily placed on his lap, are clenched into fists.

"Who has it?" Crowley asks, his voice hollow. “Hell said they did, but…” he shrugs expansively because, as the Angel is fond of reminding him, Demons are not known for their veracity.

The Angel is distracted with his own thoughts. "Beg pardon?"

"Which side has it? The Sword?"

He frowns. "Is that important?"

“If we’re gonna pike it - yes!"

"Pike it?" the Angel echoes.

"Pike it. Nick it. Bloody steal it! Unless you have a better idea?"

After a tense moment and a long, indrawn breath, Aziraphale stands up he carefully brushes a stray piece of leaf off his jacket and adjusts the set of his cuffs. "Well, I’m not sure that it’s a better idea, but I have an idea that might work. There is only one problem with it…" He gives a small and supremely uncomfortable smile. "I am dreadfully afraid that you might not like me anymore." His voice has a strained, brittle cheerfulness that isn’t helped by the rictus impersonation of a grin he has pasted on his face.

In the privacy of the bookshop, Crowley would have reached out and taken Aziraphale’s hand in reassurance. _I’ll always like you. I love you, idiot angel. You’re the brightest thing in my World… _But they are still quite new to this current vector of their relationship and out in public their body language frequently holds the old modicum of distance that’s been there form the start. The Demon’s body slants towards Aziraphale anyway, he can’t help it. _Fuck you Polaris, _he thinks, _how dare you True North... _But that’s the problem. Nothing has ever felt as right as traipsing around Earth in the Principality’s footsteps - not Heaven, not Hell, not anything: the needle of his soul turns again and again to Aziraphale. An eyebrow cants above his sunglasses. "Surprise me," he suggests.

Of a sudden, an element of heavy foreboding fills the air: a young couple nearby shiver and comment that there must be a storm coming, casting anxious glances at the sky which had seemed so blue only moments before.

Aziraphale continues in an odd, taut and almost sing-song tone that he’s adopted: "Of course, whilst we have known each other for six thousand years, you may not be fully aware that I, just like you, have had more than one name." There’s a crackle of distant thunder and the air grows heavier still. Even the ducks fall silent and hurriedly paddle their way through the pondweed away from this phenomenon that their residual, ancestral dinosaur brains associate with bright lights and sudden, abrupt, endings.

Names have been a thing they have skirted around, rarely asking for but occasionally offering up when the mood took them - they’ve both had plenty of them after all. "You’re scaring the ducks," Crowley says blandly because he doesn’t know what this is and frankly he’s fucking terrified but terror has been a part of his cellular makeup for so many aeons that he’s long since learnt to be blasé about it.

"Scare the ducks? Well, I suppose it’s no surprise I do." The Angel’s voice drops a tone, "I petrified God’s Chosen People so much that they hold a feast every year to expiate me and to thank Her that I did not visit them on that night when every first born child in Egypt died."

Something in Crowley goes very still. His lips part with a little hiss and, _“You - you didn’t,” _he counters quietly as if denying it could make a difference. He’d been there after all. Ten rogue Demons in Khem, pissing about and getting drunk, then along comes the Host and there’s a Great Plague for each of them… Crowley is starting to loose his temper - or rather he isn’t - he knows exactly where it is: looming over his not insignificant Willpower and about to smother it.

With a supreme effort he sets his feelings on that topic aside - it’s something to deal with later - when the World isn’t Ending. Again. His head dips like he has a migraine and he rubs at the bridge of his nose beneath his sunglasses. "The Sword. What the Hell do we do about the Sword, angel?"

Aziraphale looks at his hands with wonder. "In one night, I slew one hundred and eighty five thousand soldiers, young men conscripted to fight in another man’s war because it was the Will of the Almighty. I raised my hand to smite Jerusalem as a punishment for David’s sins, yet at the last moment, the commandment was rescinded and I put down my blade.” The Angel begins to radiate Wrath: the warmth of his beneficence rising in temperature until it’s white-hot.

Despite the Park being crowded, no-one pays any attention: Human minds are notoriously bad at dealing with the supernatural, they tend to block it out in self defence. Crowley is currently wishing he had that luxury.

Aziraphale’s expression is oddly blank, his eyes painfully blue, and his aura is a catastrophe waiting to happen. His wings manifest, not with a snap but with slow deliberation - and somehow that’s worse. "The Jewish people called me Mashhit, the Destroyer, and Memitim, the Executioner... It is true that I do not possess the Sword of War but this does not mean that I go unarmed…" He kneels down and thrusts his hand into the ground. Where he touches it the Earth blackens and when he pulls the hand back out, he is clutching a shining four foot blade with the blood red Hebrew word for _Ravager _carved into it. Unlike the Sword of War, this is not a soldier’s blade, designed to fight one-to-one: this is for reaping souls by the score. Aziraphale stands there, looking at it, glowing slightly in his incarnation as The Angel of The Lord, holding the blade and remembering what he had done. Emotions cross his face: guilt, bafflement and, most concerning of all, a flicker of satisfaction.

The Serpent of Eden spends all his Willpower not to recoil and at last manages to grate through gritted teeth, "What the _fuck _is that?"

He looks almost beseechingly at Crowley. "I know you must think I was soft for not wanting to kill Adam, but I’ve not touched this in millennia… and…” Aziraphale can’t quite bring himself to say the words aloud, but he is bone-achingly terrified of Ravager clasped so surely in his hand. He’s terrified of what he did with it, the blood he spilled in the Almighty’s Holy Name. And he’s terrified that he may do so again. And _enjoy _it.

_"Shouldn’t kill kids," _Crowley croaks vaguely as if he can’t quite keep hold of his thoughts properly - because he can’t, he can’t - this can’t be Aziraphale...

The Demon doesn’t like this side of the Angel he’s seeing. This isn’t sunlight and bookshops and cocoa and a love and reverence for all things. This is the Almighty’s unforgiving side: the Fall, the Flood, the Plagues, Sodom and Gomorrah. It sits very badly on his angel, Crowley thinks, like boots that pinch and a coat that doesn’t fit. But dutiful and diligent as ever, once upon a time Aziraphale had worn them. And it appears he’s willing to do so again.

_Sod that, _Crowley vows.

"This? This is the Wrath of God Incarnate. This is Her Divine Will. This is what will see the Sword of War returned or it will impose that Will upon any who seek to write their own ego over the Ineffable Plan." Aziraphale seems about six inches taller and his wings are outstretched and tinged with gold and embers like sparks of sun-fire: he is blazing and dreadful to behold.

Crowley would dearly like to retreat, but he’s sprawled on a bench and the Angel is standing right in front of him so it’s not as if he has anywhere to go. He swallows. He’s run out of Will so he burns Spite instead and finds his voice again. "Are you actually going to duel War?" he demands, resting his arms across his knees and sitting forward, bringing his face closer to the blade like a challenge. It’s like leaning his soul into the wheel of a circular saw running full blast, an inch away from cutting straight through him. _Are you going to Smite War and then come after me? Is this who you wish to be, angel? _His endless reserve of Spite is looking smaller than it had a minute ago, but the expression on his face is one of boredom and infinite scorn. "Because that is the _stupidest _thing I’ve ever fucking heard!"

"What?" Crowley’s last words finally get through to him and throw him off his stride. As that happens, he slips back into the persona of the affable, bimbling bookseller that blinks at Crowley as his wings disappear under his jacket, folded out of the Earthly Plane along with the terrible blade of Divine Wrath. "No - no! Those days have passed - that was then."

Crowley thinks he might be shaking and doesn’t fancy checking to see just in case he is. Pretence has always been his first defence: right now he’s pretending that what Aziraphale just did wasn’t the most potentially horrific thing he’s ever witnessed. He huffs sarcastically. "Yeah, the past is another country and besides the wench is dead…”

“Oh I don’t think that’s the quote…”

“I’m aware of the literature, Aziraphale. You’re avoiding the topic.”

He smiles and appears his cheery old self, but there’s something like panic hiding in his eyes. "Of course I’m not going to duel War. I am going to _politely _request that whoever has the Sword, return it to where it should be." He steeples his hands and carefully inspects his immaculately manicured fingernails. "If they fail to listen to reason, then I will regrettably stride through them like the End Times Incarnate and take it back. Gabriel, Beelzebub, and the rest seem to forget that my instructions come directly from God and, until She amends them, I act on Her Authority to protect this Earth. Until I hear from Her, I regard my instructions as superior to any scheme they may present." Unfortunately, the dramatic impact of his speech is slightly deflated by his ending: with a pout and a muttered, "So there!"

Crowley takes off his sunglasses and looks up at him, his eyes raw. "Can you, Aziraphale?" And it’s a serious and heart-felt question because Crowley has never been that big on Faith. “Can you wield that again? No matter the cost?” His voice is soft and steady but his heart is screaming because he knows that if the Angel uses that weapon, he will no longer be Aziraphale, Principality of the Eastern Gate who likes sushi restaurants and Glyndebourne and old bookshops and the Ritz. He will be Mashhit, Divine Executioner of the firstborn of Egypt. He will, in short, no longer be Crowley’s angel.

“I - I… well, I…” Aziraphale dithers wretchedly, wringing his hands.

Aziraphale’s hesitation and inability to answer makes Crowley nauseous with relief. The Demon decides with a diamond hard certainty that whatever it takes, whatever the price, he will do anything to ensure that Aziraphale never has to wield that bloody instrument of butchery ever again. (Oh, it may be in the shape of a sword, but Crowley isn’t fooled: he knows a tool of wholesale God-Sanctioned Slaughter when he sees it.) Crowley understands Celestial jobs and personas and change and loss. But he also understands the turmoil and pain they can cause - both old and new. He doesn’t want that again for Aziraphale, not if he can prevent it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is confusing two quotes: "The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there." from L.P. Hartley's 'The Go-Between.' And, "But that was in another country; And besides, the wench is dead." from 'The Jew of Malta' by Christopher Marlowe.


	6. An Idea

Crowley, when he can be bothered, is a highly meticulous individual. His flat is a case in point: he has arranged it exactly how he likes it and ensures it stays that way. This is the main reason why - other than the whole World-Ending bit of the equation - that he loathes Apocalypses. (And it is as much an annoyance and surprise to him as to anyone else to learn they could be plural.) An Apocalypse messes with things: things he has put in place and has been working on, tending with more diligence and subtlety than he ever has his houseplants.

The first Apocalypse had messed with the Arrangement and his familiar friendship with Aziraphale. This one was threatening that relationship further because there were more parts of it to break. There wasn’t just their friendship that had changed from the casual _‘I’ll do you a favour’ _sort of friendship to the more intensive _‘I’ll move Heaven and Earth for you - Hell too’ _sort of friendship. There was companionship of a more domestic variety too; being in and out of one anther’s space, one another’s pockets, and finding it not an imposition but a delight. And there had been the admittance and declarations of love - from both parties - which was a Miracle in itself after six millennia. There had even been sex, of one form or another. (They were progressing cautiously on that front. Although in the terms of their six thousand years relationship they were rutting like weasels.)

An Apocalypse messed with all of that.

It even, although here the Demon did not like to dwell, messed with _them_. Aziraphale became immovable in what he considered the correct path of action and secretive in his accomplishment of it. Crowley became depressed and snappish and prone to acts of cosmic <strike>bravery</strike> stupidity.

None of these changes would be instrumental in giving Crowley what he chiefly desires: which is a quiet life with a contented Angel so he might bask in Eden’s sunlight and enjoy some conversation and a few bottles of Le Pin ‘82 as he does so.

* * *

He puts his sunglasses back on. “This is a terrible plan. Truly, terrible. There has to be another way.”

"I certainly hope so. It has been a long time since I had to engage in Smiting and I didn’t enjoy it much when I did." The Angel looks flustered and uncomfortable in his own skin. In truth his memories of his time as Divine Wrath Incarnate are a little hazy: a red-mist fugue state. _Probably for the best, _he admits to himself. He sits down on the bench gingerly, casting little sideways looks at the Demon, worried his company is no longer tolerable.

Crowley remains obstinately sprawled and doesn’t flinch when their knees touch.

"They’ll need all four of them, not just War," Aziraphale offers.

He shakes his head. "War’s the first. Once she gets a hold of Reality the others will follow." Crowley takes the opportunity to summon up a bottle of single malt: he feels after the events of the morning he’s certainly earned it.

"True, true." Aziraphale flexes his finger and looks shyly at Crowley. "Of course, it is not War whose behind needs spanking, it’s Gabriel. The reason why he is, well - what you frequently call him - is that he is certain in his own particular brand of Righteousness. Further, he has never had to suffer consequences for bad decisions as everyone believes that, as a Righteous Angel, he is incapable of sin so, even if the consequences are dire, he must have been acting for the Greater Good." He stops and purses his lips, looking as close to cross as he’s capable of. "You know, I’m getting to really dislike that phrase, it is so - so _arrogant_." He mentally catches himself thinking ‘so Angelic’ and looks disapprovingly at the treacherous neurons responsible.

Crowley uncaps the whisky and drinks, then his lips thin and it’s not hard to tell he is spending an indulgent few seconds imagining the Archangel getting his comeuppance. “Gabriel makes me want to vomit up my breakfast.”

“You didn’t eat any breakfast - did you?”

The Demon gives a scornful shrug. “Not the point, angel… This…” He doesn’t want to call Ravager a mere sword but he doesn’t want to say its name either. “This sword idea is awful,” he reiterates. “We’re not gonna beat War with a sword." He takes off his sunglasses for the second time and rubs at his eyes before flicking a sideways glance at the Angel and drinking again. "It’s not a good idea," he says heavily. What he means is, _"Thiss will be a fucking disasster and I’ll losse you…" _The words are uttered aloud which he didn’t intend but they are very quiet and mostly disguised by a stress-induced sibilance.

Aziraphale looks at Crowley and it’s a look of such raw anguish and worried pleading that the Demon’s heart stutters in his chest. Ancient Egypt was a long time ago: Aziraphale is no longer Mashhit and has done everything to distance himself from that facet of his existence. Has gone further in fact, has insisted on caring, on being gentle, on treasuring Life and Humanity.

Crowley has been on the receiving end of Divine Wrath and he isn’t a fan. But it occurs to him to wonder if it might not hurt almost as badly to be an instrument of Divine Wrath. How do you walk away from that? How do you embrace Humanity and soften yourself, when every single second, at the core of your soul, radiates the Knowledge of what you’re capable of - the Memory of what you did?

He tries to swallow past the thorns that seem to be clogging his throat. _I love you, _he thinks fiercely. _I’ll come up with something - whatever it takes… _His eyes sting with the beginning of tears and he hastily puts his sunglasses back on, shifting his position with an indifferent sniff. “Look, you’re not gonna beat War with a sword. Fighting is what she wants, right? Turn up with a sword an’ you’re just playing her game - an’ she’s better at it - she’ll win.”

“Are you suggesting we stand idle?”

“No! What I’m suggesting… what I’m _suggesting_,” he repeats, desperately raiding the attic of his Imagination in order to suggest anything. “What I’m suggesting is we need to cancel War out.” Oh thank Someone - an Idea.

“Cancel them out?” Aziraphale echoes doubtfully.

“Yeah. Y’know - counteract. Nullify. Heaven and Hell want to summon War. We have to summon Peace.” A ruminative swig of whisky and at last he sighs, putting the bottle on the bench between them. “Help yourself,” he offers.

The Angel looks relieved. “Oh - oh thank you,” he says, because whilst Crowley is a Demon, he has his own little benedictions and ways of making one feel welcome or Forgiven or Loved when he chooses. He takes a delicate sip from the bottle before placing it back on the bench.

They sit in silence for several minutes in contemplation of that particular impossibility and how it might be accomplished. Some of the braver ducks return from wherever they’d hidden themselves and take to the pond, grumbling and un-ruffling their feathers.

“An Invocation… Correspondences,” the Angel suggests. “There are certain Wards that can be put in place, but the difficulty lies in finding the correct conduit. What we need are symbols of Peace.”

“A white flag?” the Demon offers flippantly.

“No, no, a truce is part and parcel of the subjugation warfare inflicts. We need symbols that are eternal. Olive branches. Doves. That sort of thing.”

“You can’t prove a negative,” Crowley mutters darkly.

“What has that to do with anything?”

“Olive branches and doves and poppies and all that bullshit! They only came to symbolize Peace _after _a conflict. Y’know - like, oh look it’s a rainbow! Newsflash - those only exist because the drowning happened first!”

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale admonishes lightly.

He drinks liberally from the bottle. “Being rude doesn’t make me wrong. We need - I don’t know! - something powerful and incorruptible. Not just the absence of War - the opposite of War in every way.”

The Angel huffs and frowns, because Crowley’s right. Bread and oil, corn and honey - none of that would be enough. It was a Ward, not a banishment, and certainly not a weapon. “One cannot weaponize Peace.”

Crowley leans forward, hunched over his knees; he scowls and drinks and is uncharacteristically quiet for a very long time. “What if you could?” he asks at last.

“Hm? Could what?”

“Weaponize Peace,” he enunciates with precision.

The Angel frowns. “I don’t believe I follow dear boy.”

Crowley sits up, gesticulating with the bottle. “Think about it. War’s so hard to get rid of because somewhere, deep down, Humans want it. Someone’s always gonna get greedy or decide that they know best and try to do something others disagree with. Conflict. Scale that up, and you get War… But there’s one class of people who don’t want War. Who likely _never _wanted War, and sure as Hell don’t ever want to see it again…” He looks expectantly at Aziraphale.

The Angel hums and scowls. “Children?” he hazards.

Crowley leans back, insulted. “Fuck me - I’m not weaponizing _kids _to stop War, angel!”

“No, of course not, I simply… they were the first group of people who came to mind,” he finishes a little lamely. “The losers of any conflict?” he tries again.

“Naah, that’s just regret ‘cos they didn’t win. They’d choose War again in a heartbeat if they thought they could conquer.” He waits again, seeing if Aziraphale has any more ideas. “One class of people… C’mon angel…”

Aziraphale shakes his head having no more notions that sound plausible.

“The _dead_,” Crowley says with relish. “Especially the dead soldiers. Think about it. Drafted and dragged up for King and Country just so they can die in a muddy puddle somewhere they’ve never heard of? Never see home again? Eighteen years old, blown to smithereens and that’s that - just a name on a brass plaque amongst all those other names… Wouldn’t you loathe War? Wouldn’t you do anything to make sure it never happened again?”

Aziraphale ponders this, a little frown spiked between his brows. “I can’t fault your logic, dear boy, but I’m having trouble with the practicalities. How do we utilize the dead exactly?”

The Demon’s smile is sly. “We use a Necromancer.”

Aziraphale looks carefully at Crowley, trying to gauge whether this is a joke in very poor taste. Necromancy is very high on his _No, No, No, Not In Any Circumstance, No _list. He’d heard too many anguished souls trapped for eternity between planes of existence due to - what’s the word that he wants? - ‘dabbling’ by unskilled buffoons. He still quite likes the ‘smacking Gabriel’s behind’ plan; it would be immensely satisfying and he is, if pressed, finding Her injunctions of Forgiveness a little difficult since the Archangel tried to execute him.

Crowley sees the unhappiness - the distaste - over the idea cross the Angel’s face. “Oh, come on,” he nudges. “You’re not gonna start with all that ‘thou shalt not suffer a Witch to live’ stuff are you? Do I have to remind you we met a perfectly charming Witch the other month at the Iphigenia? We gave her a lift home. You Miracled her out of the car and into her room. _In tartan pyjamas,” _the Demon reminds him mercilessly. “And you know she wasn’t one of those ‘wave a crystal and everything is Blessed Be’ types - she had power.” It was erratic, granted, and fuelled by blood and insanity if the scent rolling off her was anything to go by, but in the grand scheme of saving the World those were very minor details. “Let’s go talk to her at least. She might say no - tell us to sod right off,” he offers, as if it’s likely that one suicidal Witch with no sense of self-preservation would actually _say _that.

Aziraphale brightens, because he’s an optimist and doesn’t know Mercy as well as Crowley does. “Very well, I suppose…”

“Come on…”


	7. Shamblyland

Mercy is not a fan of answering the door or the telephone. The telephone is always either a telemarketer, or someone looking for whoever lived here four tenants back. As for the door, it’s invariably a Jehovah’s Witness, or a drug dealer trying to sell a carpet.

The doorbell has just rung and made her twitch by the excessive volume of its tone in the quiet of the flat. _“Fuck off,” _she mutters instinctually. Then she remembers that she’s expecting a second-hand graphics tablet she got on the cheap off Ebay. “Shit!” she swears again and scrabbles out of her room and down the stairs - grabbing her keys as she goes because the inner door is a traitorous thing and has shut on her twice. She flings open the door to the flat and finally the front door. Then she rocks back on her heels and almost lands on her arse because that’s not the postman… She swallows. “Hello,” she offers experimentally to the Angel and the Demon crowding her doorstep.

“Hi,” Crowley purrs. “We need to talk.”

She swallows again. “Sure, uh, come in,” she says and it’s the hardest three and a half words she’s ever forced out of her mouth. She leads the way upstairs into the front room of the flat: it’s full of RPG books, art supplies, and a half finished sewing project but it’s mostly tidy and contains sufficient furniture that they can all sit down.

“Tea?” she suggests desperately.

“Oh! That would be lovely!” the Angel enthuses.

“Milk? Sugar?”

“Just a dash of milk if you would, please.”

She nods and retreats to the kitchen to boil the kettle and wonder what in the name of WTF has just happened.

There’s a huge painted mural on the back wall above the sofa: it’s a map showing the Thames and the old Ward boundaries of the City of London. Houses are painted in red, parks and gardens in green. The Angel’s eyes gravitate towards Covent Garden and Soho: Seven Dials has not seven but nine streets radiating from it. “Oh dear, I don’t think that’s quite right…” He’s considering Miracle-ing it better but Crowley catches his hand and shakes his head emphatically.

“Is this London?” Aziraphale enquires of the mural when Mercy returns with three mugs of tea and puts them on the coffee table.

“No, it’s the Other London.”

“Other London? What other London?” the Angel sounds faintly panicked.

She shrugs. “I dunno. The Other London.”

Crowley doesn’t like the potentially circular nature of the conversation and fears the Angel is about to repeat himself. “Great - fantastic,” he says loudly.

“Do you only have one set of clothes?” she asks, the question voiced before she can catch it.

The sunglasses glower. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly, “they’re very chic.”

“We were wondering if…”

Mercy scuffs up the sleeves of her jumper as she reclaims her tea and sits down on the sofa.

Crowley points at her arm but he’s staring at Aziraphale. _“What is that?” _he demands.

On her right forearm is a black and purple serpent whose shape echoes the sigil on Crowley’s jaw. There are also white feathers and something that looks suspiciously like Enochian script.

“My new ink,” Mercy supplies. “It’s shiny, isn’t it? It’s funny, serpents have never really been my thing before, but the design popped into my head.” She shrugs. “I really like it. It goes all the way up - there’s keys and a shield and an eight pointed star and stuff.”

Crowley continues to glower at Aziraphale.

_“It’s not a true Miracle, nor is it an injunction,” _the Angel mutters desperately, _“it’s more of a minor protection.”_

Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose beneath the frame of his sunglasses.

Mercy looks bemused. “Shall I give you two a minute?”

“No,” the Demon grinds out, and then is back to his initial problem of how to explain they need her help. Asking for things has never been a strength of his: admitting need is a very stupid thing to do if one is a Demon. “Angel,” he snaps, gesturing at the Witch.

“Oh, yes, I see, of course. You’re probably wondering why we’re here,” he smiles.

Mercy manages to nod encouragingly despite the fact it’s taking every ounce of willpower she possesses not to start giggling and never stop: life is just taking the piss.

Getting pixie-led by a fox. Chatting up the local fae. Seeing ghosts. Punching a wight in the face. Reading tarot cards in the pub… All of this is pretty normal for her: but it’s drunken 3am normal - the sort of normal that lives in the dark and inebriated realm of Plausible Deniability. Only that’s fucked now, ‘cos she’s sober and an Angel and a Demon are drinking tea in her flat. (Well, one of them is drinking tea, the other’s occasionally staring at it, and technically it’s not her flat it’s Ben’s, but that’s not the point.)

“We are rather in need of someone with your talents,” Aziraphale continues and smiles as if that’s cleared everything up.

She raises an eyebrow. “Talents?”

“We need, a Necromancer!”

She almost chokes on her tea - it’s the way he says it more than anything. “Um. Sure. Okay?” she agrees because she’ll never forgive herself if she doesn’t. _Yeah, so maybe I’m having a psychotic break and am actually drugged to the eyeballs in the Maudsley, _she reasons. _But whatever, this is fantastic!_

“You will?” The Angel practically preens before remembering what her help will entail and the fact that he’s staunchly against it. “Oh. Ah. That’s all sorted then...” he says, wilting.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley warns.

“Oh. Not enough information?”

The Demon wears an exasperated expression beneath his sunglasses.

“Right. Well…” He picks up his tea and does an odd little wiggle like he’s trying to settle into his chair more comfortably. He looks like a rather batty Oxbridge Don. “The Powers That Be wish to bring about Armageddon as they didn’t manage it the first time. To this end they have obtained the Sword of War; they’ll use it to summon that entity and hope that she in turn will call the other three Horsemen into existence. Well, not existence exactly, they never really go away, but into more, ah, concentrated forms.”

He looks at Mercy who nods as if to say Yes, This Is All Normal, because she doesn’t know what else to do.

“We would very much like to ensure that the World continues to exist,” he smiles at her almost apologetically as if he hopes this isn’t an unreasonable notion.

She smiles back, thinking, _Mmhm, psychotic break - well done me..._

“To this end, we wish to steal the Sword of War and subvert its power.” He says it like a conclusion, like a reasonable ending.

Wordlessly, Crowley points at the Witch.

“Oh!” Aziraphale amends, “Oh yes. We need the Spirits of dead soldiers to stand against War. Hence, Necromancer. You, in fact.”

She gives the Demon a quizzical look. “You believe every drunk girl in a pub who tells you she’s a Necromancer?”

“No, you’re the first,” Crowley drawls.

“How’d you know I’m any good?”

He doesn’t dignify that with a reply.

She takes his point - they were _there _weren’t they? Drinking and not-drinking tea in her stupid Shamblyland flat. She scuffs absently at her hair, takes a deep breath and huffs it out. “Okaaay,” she says slowly. “Just checking we’re on the same page… You want me to raise an army of ghost soldiers to help you battle War incarnate?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“Where is this happening?”

“Oh!” the Angel exchanges glances with the Demon. “We hadn’t yet considered the location. The potential for War is everywhere, after all…”

Mercy shakes her head. “Nah - no no no - trust me, if you’re doing some ritual or symbolic battle or whatever, the location’s everything.”

Crowley shifts in his chair, sliding lower.

The Witch pointedly pays attention to her tea because the last fucking thing in the overdramatic gods-forsaken disaster-zone of her life that she needs right now is to wonder if she is in fact starting to fancy a gay Demon who already has an Angelic boyfriend. _There’s psychotic break, _she schools herself, _and then there’s just plain stupid._

“Cenotaph,” he says decisively. “National monument to the Glorious Dead. Practically worshiped at come November - all those poppy wreathes representing loss and the hope it will never happen again...”

There’s something raw in his voice that he’s trying to hide. Mercy wants to ask if he was around for WWI, but she’s read too many faerytales to be that foolish. “Westminster Abbey’s just up the road,” she says instead. They both look at her expectantly. “Tomb of the Unknown Warrior. You wanna raise an army of pacifist ghosts, I can’t think of anywhere better.” She doesn’t mention, because neither of them ask, exactly what her raising the dead might involve. “Is this - is this all happening soon?” she queries because it seems a pragmatic question, and also she’s wondering how long this mental breakdown of hers will last. She’s still got to pay rent after all.

The Occult and the Ethereal exchange glances. “Yes,” they both say.

“Oh goody,” she murmurs, because _‘I’ve always been a bit of a flake but my dad died three months ago and I’m obviously coping a lot worse than I thought since I’m hallucinating Angels and Demons who want me to raise the dead and help save the World. How to even unpack that?’ _isn’t something she feels up to saying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to see the Other London mural, it's here: https://wraithwitch.tumblr.com/post/139750639179/the-grand-mural-of-the-other-london-aka-undone-a


	8. Bad Decisions

Aziraphale sits in the passenger seat of the Bentley, ominously quiet, staring straight ahead out of the windscreen.

Crowley frowns at him, hands hesitating to grasp the steering wheel, knowing the Angel wishes to speak.

“So, that’s the plan then, is it? Ask a talented but ill-disciplined Witch we met in a public house to carry out a ritual in one of the holiest places in the country and just hope things get better, because ‘raising the dead’ always makes things better!” His voice has been rising steadily during the speech until it ended with what would clearly have been an exclamation point if he were to write it down.

“Are you done?”

“I’ve barely started! Honestly Crowley, you may not have noticed but the secular authorities have gotten rather sensitive to people carrying out suspicious religious babbling in built-up areas these days. I cannot see any way that your scheme doesn’t get somewhat aborted by your pet Mortal’s body becoming home to any number of hostile bullets of the sort that can ruin anybody’s day.”

_“Pet?! _You’re the one who made her get that bloody tattoo!” Crowley snarls.

“I didn’t _make _her,” he counters.

“Well I didn’t put the idea in her head!” The Demon doesn’t like to admit it but he’s oddly discomforted - embarrassed really - by seeing his sigil on someone else’s skin. He understands the practical side: it’s a minor blessing (or intervention) of protection and sanity. That doesn’t stop him wishing Aziraphale had stuck to Enochian and not got creative with the design.

“Oh, never mind the etching!” He looks beseechingly at the Demon. “Tell me that you have a more complex plan? You keep telling me you’re the clever one, my dear, and right now I truly need you to show it.”

Crowley gives him a long and blank look from behind his sunglasses and keeps a tight reign on his temper. He hadn’t considered it was possible Aziraphale would reject his strategy, but it seems he’s startlingly talented when it comes to proving himself wrong. He knows his plan is infinitely better than Aziraphale’s _‘I’ll Simply Go Bugnuts With a Murder Sword of Holy Wrath’ _idea, thank you very much, he just has to bring the Angel round to it. He lets out a lengthy sigh and his mounting anger with it. “I get the Sword. You ward the Cenotaph. I stick the Sword in the Cenotaph. The Witch raises an army of the dead to stand against War whilst I Imagine the Sword’s a fucking ploughshare, and you protect one Mortal and ensure she doesn’t get shot by morons!” He waves his arms. “War is locked out of the Earthly Realm, Peace reigns and Heaven and Hell have to go back to twiddling their thumbs. We’ve stopped the Apocalypse once already - how hard can this _be?”_

The Angel reaches out and just touches Crowley’s shoulder, alarmed at the tone in his voice. He gives a small, if slightly twisted smile and murmurs, “The trouble is, I’m not sure if you know how hard this _is_going to be. For all her chosen form, War is not a person or even an entity who can be negotiated with or talked out of her path. She’s old, almost as old as us and has been around since Cain got cross that God preferred lamb chops to turnips. She’s a Force, a Thing That Happens and the best that you can say about her is that she sleeps, for now. She’s as much a part of the Divine Will and, yes, the Ineffable Plan as we are. I have ridden alongside her and seen nations fall and crumble in her presence…”

Crowley turns away with a little shake of his head and then looks back. His chest feels tight: ribs constricting his lungs, squeezing his heart and making the habit of breathing a distinctly uncomfortable one. _“I’m not having you wield that fucking sword, angel - and that’s the end of it.” _He grins of a sudden, alarmingly bright and terrifically feral because he doesn’t want to think about the lengths he’ll go to (every length, any length, all the lengths - he’ll burn the stars from the sky) and he doesn’t want Aziraphale to think too closely about it either. “Great putrid _mangled _cocks to the Great and _blasted _Plan,” he curses with relish. “Aw, c’mon, angel, swords to ploughshares - it’s practically Biblical! In fact I’m pretty sure it is _actually _Biblical…”

He folds his hand back neatly on his lap and looks back up at the flat across the street. “And you’re asking that Mortal to stand in War’s presence and bid her to cease her duty, her very purpose?” 

The Demon’s mania drops. “That’s a melodramatic way of putting it,” he complains. “The Witch will be at the Abbey. _You’ll _be at the Abbey - you can look after one measly Mortal… Besides, I’m pretty sure War will be after her Sword,” he adds, a touch glumly.

Aziraphale also stills, looking deep inside himself and then at Crowley. There is something profound but unfathomable behind his eyes. “I do trust you, my dear. Well, as far as I trust anything in these circumstances,” he amends, straining not to laugh. “I will keep the Mortal safe as required; you do whatever it is you have to do. Although you must know, the Sword of War will return to its true form as soon as it can.” His face brightens. “Of course, you might not be able to - what was the word? - ‘pike’ the Sword in the first place, and so this may not come about at all and we go back to Plan A… Which would be a very bad thing of course…” he adds hurriedly.

Crowley can’t help but notice that Aziraphale is unconsciously flexing his sword hand and a flicker of something has lifted the edge of his mouth. He doesn’t like that one little bit, but he smiles, wide and facetious. “I’m a Serpent. I can nick anything,” he boasts. This isn’t true; larceny is not his stock in trade, but he can still lie and Imagine, and perhaps if he does so enough even he’ll believe it. His mouth twists into a grimmer line. “Hell it is then. I suppose I’d better drop you at the bookshop. I assume you’ll have research to do, supplies to collect, that sort of thing?”

“Yes, dear boy. We should also settle on the time of your return: I’ll have to have everything prepared here before you bring the Sword onto the Earthly Plain. War will feel its presence, you know.” Aziraphale has regained much of the equilibrium he’d unknowingly lost ever since he pulled Ravager out of the Earth. He still didn’t care for the individual elements of Crowley’s plan, but now it’s in motion he’s feeling better about it. He hates when he and Crowley miss-step, falling out of synch and out of sorts with one another. He always feels steadier when he and Crowley work in tandem: heading in the same direction. They only have their own side these days, after all, and the Angel becomes sickeningly insecure when he perceives it to be under threat.

The Bentley plays _‘Bad Decisions’ _by Bastille to show her feelings on the matter, but both the Angel and the Demon are too preoccupied to notice.

_“Love me, leave me, _  
_Rhythm of the evening, chasing a good time_  
_London’s burning _  
_If the World is ending, let’s stay up all night…”_

* * *

It’s a little known fact, but Heaven and Hell press suffocating close upon the Earthly Plane. Hell for example, is literally two steps to the left and down by a few moral degrees. That’s how Crowley accesses it now: he’s a Demon, even whilst out of favour, even whilst named a Traitor and a Renegade, he can still find his way Downwards. He doesn’t even have to saunter - although he does - because old habits die hard.

* * *

He stands with an effort, his scales cooling with little pings like over-heated ceramic. _“Fires so hot you’ll jump into lakes of molten glass to cool off - who comes up with this shit?” _he mutters, annoyed: his jacket will be ruined for a start.

It’s a long and labyrinthine slog through several Circles of Hell. Crowley feels like he’s been on a pub-crawl where someone hits him with a cricket bat between pints, but then Hell always makes him feel like that. One endless messy pub-crawl you never wanted to take part in to begin with, where someone always pukes on your shoes and spills beer on your coat and you’ve a horrible feeling you’ve left your house-keys in the Gents, three pubs back…

There are however, many advantages to being able to shift into the form of a Serpent: primarily, that it gives one easy access to vents and pipes. The ventilation system in Hell is just an excuse to blow ash and sulphur fumes around and doesn’t actually ventilate anything. The less said about the piping system the better. Crowley has no idea what it pipes, he just knows that he’s had to slither through it and he really wishes he hadn’t; it’s disgusting.

* * *

To be honest, he wasn’t certain what he was expecting - although he’d been expecting more than that.

The Sword. It was just... there. Right there - no traps, no riddles, no guards, no nothing - like anyone could walk in and pick it up.

(Walk in? To Hell? And pick it up? From Beelzebub’s desk?)

Yeah, alright, maybe not _anyone _could have done it, but still…

_Blessings, Crowley, _an infinitely prim and patient voice in the back of his head reminds him. _Count them…_

“Shuttup, angel,” he mutters reflexively. “I’ve got the stupid Sword. You’d better have everything else ready…”

* * *

It’s seven o’clock on a Friday evening: she answers the phone like someone defusing a bomb because instinct tells her it’s a very important call to take. “Hi, yeah, what?” Mercy demands, hoping she doesn’t sound as nervous as she feels.

“Ah, good evening. I take it I have the pleasure of addressing Mercy? We require you at Westminster Abbey for ten o’clock.”

She recognises the Angel’s voice. “My Oyster card’s not topped up,” she counters; money’s been tight the last few months. She feels stupid even as she says it, but it would, she reasons, be far stupider to be stuck in Shamblyland when she’s meant to be helping defeat War incarnate because she can’t scrounge up the train fare.

A pause. “I think you’ll find it’s quite serviceable now.”

She wants to argue but doesn’t see the point. Either an Angel has just magicked money onto her Oyster card and she believes that, or she should put the phone down and take a good long look at her life choices. “Er. Thanks. Then I’ll be with you at quarter to ten? I don’t really have much to set up. This is - this is The Thing, right?”

“Yes,” the Angel admits tightly. “I shall be awaiting you outside the Abbey._I Shall Accompany You And Ensure Nothing Untoward Befalls You This Night.” _He sounded uncomfortable, but also extremely serious.

She doesn’t like his use of the word ‘untoward’. Beneath the stuffiness his voice had contained strange echoes of churchyard bells, endless crystalline skies, and choirs of incandescent beings singing harmonies capable of rewriting space and time… It brought home to her that she’d been treating this like a freeform LARP game, and that perhaps she ought to stop. She shivers. “Right. Yep. Thanks,” she says quietly as she ends the call.

“Right. Okay. _Fuck_…” She scrubs her hands over her face. She’ll need her card, her keys, her dad’s winter coat, her blades, her phone, some bandages, a lot of eyeliner, and a bottle of very cheap vodka. Then she’ll need to catch a train whilst surreptitiously getting as much of the vodka down her throat as possible: Necromancy’s always easier when not entirely sober.

She has a feeling that Necromancy on this scale is going to require her to be Fantastically Inebriated…


	9. Having Kittens

There is no arcane ritual required to summon War. She, perhaps more so than any of the Four, has been created by Humanity: an ancient ill, a nasty little habit Humans still can’t kick.

Just the Sword being out and about on the Earthly Plane is enough - it not only calls, it _sings _of Slaughter and Glorious Bloodshed…

* * *

Crowley is not possessed of a joyous disposition by the time he finally slithers out of Hell at three minutes to ten. He had to carry the Sword in his mouth for much of the journey and his lips are burnt and his jaw aches. He’d considered, for a nano-second, swallowing it as a means of transporting it with him, before deciding that would be a Very Bad Plan. He shifted into his Serpentine form, manifesting in a mass large enough to grasp the Sword in his jaws. This meant he could no longer fit in the pipes - an inconvenience he couldn’t bring himself to mourn. The vents were larger however, and could, with much care and muffled swearing, be traversed.

If the descent was a slog, the upwards ascent was a marathon over white-hot coals; it always was. (Heaven and Hell balance that way: the road to Hell is easy, the path to Heaven hard. Leaving Hell is extraordinarily difficult whilst getting booted out of Heaven can happen in the blink of an eye.) The Sword made it more complicated: always in the way, always seeking to catch on or clang against things and generally make his life a misery. It reminded him of the incredibly long film with the towers and the spiders and the battles and the stupid ring everybody wanted. (Crowley had quite liked that film, although he had dozed through the bit about the trees and possibly some other bits too. It wasn’t anywhere near as good as the film about the bear who spread chaos and was powered by marmalade: Crowley had seen that five times at the cinema and it had made him laugh every time.)

When Crowley finally manages to push his charred and tender snout up out of the Earth somewhere in Westminster, he’s in a supremely un-beneficent mood. He spits the Sword onto the tarmac and wearily pulls himself up, scales fading, limbs forming. He coughs; his teeth ache. He spares a thought for his burnt mouth and the damage heals. He rucks his jacket so the right sleeve is pulled across his palm before he picks up the Sword again. His top lip curls in a serpentine snarl at the offending weapon and he opens his mouth to say something uncomplimentary before freezing. Clouds are gathering with indecent haste and flickering with blood-hued and unnatural menace over the sky of Central London.

“She knows,” he utters. And then, realizing he came up on the far side of St James’s Park close to The Mall, he starts to swear in earnest. The Cenotaph is half a mile away on the other side of the Park, just over from Downing Street. Half a mile is a paltry distance: but War travels fast, fast as bullets, fast as missiles. Crowley’s skin blanches a shade paler, and he starts to run.

* * *

He’s just passed the Guard’s Memorial: the statues at its foot look like wraiths, burnt out memories of the fallen. He wonders, in a moment of delirious panic, whether Heaven ever erected monuments to the Fallen in the way Humanity had to their fallen soldiers. _Not bloody likely, _he thinks with a twinge of emotion that is both somehow vindicated and disappointed, and hares onwards to cut across Downing Street. (Technically he shouldn’t be able to, but when Crowley has a need for speed, Reality sensibly gets out of his way.)

* * *

The officer on duty that night is one Paul Atherton, and he is currently kneeling down to stroke Gladstone, the Treasury cat who is purring shamelessly. “You little harlot,” he accuses, his Port Talbot accent showing more than he’d like, scratching it behind the ears. “See now, this unbridled display!”

Gladstone purrs even louder.

Something causes Atherton to look up and to the left: the black wrought gates always ruined the view of St James’s Park from here, but they did stop people from pestering the poor bobby on duty at the gloss-dark door of No. 10, so served a purpose at least.

He watches an unlikely looking person move resolutely through the slim gathering of tourists on Horse Guards Road. Mostly if they had a mind to, folk gathered on Parliament Street, so it was comparatively unusual to be bothered from the direction of the Park. As Atherton watches, the figure flicks his hand up: there’s an electronic click, and the gate swings ponderously open.

Shifting the weight of his Heckler & Koch he remembers to rise and segue from his ‘I’ve just been petting a cat’ smile, to his more businesslike ‘I am a terribly polite policeman who will reluctantly shoot you in the name of queen and country if I really must’ face. “Excuse me, sir?” he calls. “Might I see your I.D?”

The lanky and sharply dressed figure with unnaturally red hair and a grim expression ignores him, continuing to stride ahead as if his life depends on it. (Which, technically, it does - everybody’s life does.)

“Sir? If you could stop, sir?” He loads the honorific like a bullet into a gun or a noose round a neck because he has no intention of using either. Atherton is an advocate of the fact British Police are meant to police by consent: they’re not army nor militia, they’re only there because Robert Peel and everyone since has agreed it’s best that they are. (UK policemen are encouraged to take the ‘peace’ side of ‘keeping the peace’ very seriously. And precisely because he is armed, Atherton does. He’s been taught to pull a trigger, but he’s also been taught that once that mechanism had been deployed there’s no taking it back.)

The sir in question - who is still hurrying onwards - doesn’t appear to be actively plotting trouble. If anything he looks harried and faintly discomfited: like someone who’s taking a shortcut across a neighbour’s lawn. But he does also appear to be carrying a Roman gladius somewhat awkwardly in his right hand.

_Oh bloody hell, _Atherton thinks. “Sir! Stand where you are and put down the sword!” His Welsh accent is stronger because he’s stressed: he was petting a cat a minute ago and now there’s some idiot with a sword. “Sir? Sir!”

The skinny maniac with the blade doesn’t stop or even acknowledge him, just keeps moving down the road.

“Sir, I am authorized to fire…” It’s a statement that sounds more commanding in an American accent, he knows, but he doesn’t want to shoot, so maybe it’s for the best. “Sir!”

_Oh shit, _he thinks unhappily, pulling the gun up level with his chest, readying it to fire… There’s a click, or perhaps a snap, and things feel different. Atherton looks down at his hands, easily cradling what he’d thought was a Heckler & Koch close against his ribs. It is instead three small and wrigglesome gun-black kittens intent on plundering him for warmth and food.

“Er…?” he says because his brain doesn’t feel right, and even if it did, he still wouldn’t know how to explain the kittens.

Gladstone approaches, curious, twining round his ankles.

“Oh, so this is your fault, is it?” Atherton decides, wondering how he can work that into the official report he will no doubt be required to file.

* * *

At the end of Downing Street Crowley careens to the right, feeling the fetid air of violent destruction breathing down the back of his neck and pushes himself to sprint faster - move faster - his eyes locked on the pale mass of the Cenotaph’s stones up ahead. At some point in that final desperate sprint his wings unfurl, snapping out then hunching close over his shoulders, flight feathers angled not to impede his progress but ready to push down in a split second’s notice to raise him aloft. He never slows but with a grunt of effort he half flies, half scrambles to the top of the monument in an ungainly but fluid ascent. He lands carefully: the top of the monument has been daubed and wreathed with things that it wouldn’t do to disturb. He leans over, one hand braced against a boney knee as he catches un-needed breath and watches War materialize and walk unhurriedly towards him with the patience of an apex predator who knows lunch is about to be served.

* * *

The chill of the night is seeping into the stones of Westminster Abbey, yet the nave is softly lit with a multitude of candles: their flames flicker and flutter in the drafts that gust, dancing with dust and holiness and history.

The Abbey is empty save for two figures at the West end of the nave, one stands at the head of and one sits upon a tomb of black Belgium marble.

The one who stands is dressed in outdated clothes: a fawn velvet waistcoat with pocket watch and chain, a cream frockcoat with an impressively wide set of collar and lapels, impeccably pressed trousers and highly polished shoes. He has a face suited to softness and indulgent smiles, but it’s not wearing those expressions currently. His hair sticks up in the palest of blond curls and puts any who see it in mind of duck-down. His eyes, usually an easy aqua blue, are shadowed and grim.

“Will you, ah, move about much?”

“No. I’ll be right here,” she twitches a shaky smile at the poppy wreathed stone she’s sitting on like some irreverent pixie. She holds out a hand, fingers stretched, palm flat, to lightly touch the marble as if gentling an animal. Her fingers shake and she has to force herself to press her skin to the stone: a shudder runs through her. _“‘M sorry,” _she mumbles, although it’s not entirely clear whom she’s apologizing to. Her hair is lilac and of uneven length: the longer side has been inexpertly tied back. Her eyes are khol-lined and not entirely focused; her face is very pale. She wears dark-hued, unremarkable clothes; her coat is in a male cut and at least four sizes too large for her - but it does have copiously deep pockets.

The Angel suddenly lifts his head, sensing something she cannot. “It’s time: we must begin.”

She nods, her mouth too dry to speak.

The Principality of the Eastern Gate unfolds the glory of his wings with a great snap of displaced air.

The Witch, like an idiot, looks at them. Then, what seems like an eternity later, manages to put her hands over her eyes and tip her head back down so all she can see are her legs and the marble, and her coat tails spread across it. She shakes her head. _“Don’t look, don’t look,” _she mumbles to herself, reaching into her coat pocket and pulling out the half empty bottle of vodka. The astringent taste of it, like refined lighter fluid, is enough to pull her brain out of its free-fall.

* * *

“Oh, hey,” he calls casually. “Fancy seeing you here…” War doesn’t scare Crowley; she could cause his utter destruction, obviously, but in the terror stakes when ranked against, say, Lucifer, or Bedlam, or Hastur, or Aziraphale wielding Ravager, she’s low down on the list somewhere between Income Tax Return forms and Quinoa.

“You have what is mine.”

“This old thing?” he gestures with the Sword. “Oh, I found it. Lying around the place…”

War is standing at the base of the Cenotaph, the toe of her boots an inch away from the steps that she makes no move to climb. _“You. Have. What. Is. Mine.” _

“Oh - oh right. You want it?” Crowley says with an insouciance that’s insulting. “Have it…” He rams the Sword into the stone through the dove’s feathers, through the silver ring and the sigils so painfully wrought in milk and honey, oil and breadcrumbs, through the wreathes of ivy and field poppies in bone white and arterial red, and deep into the heart of the Cenotaph.

War screams and it sounds like falling bombs and shattered glass and the whistle-howl of a Stuka in full dive.

It makes his brain want to boil and dribble out of his ears and the pain is Apocalyptic but he’s been here before (or somewhere like it) and he knows what to do. On the Earthly Plane, Crowley has a double-handed grip on the Sword of War, and is shaking as the psychic feedback tries to ground through him. Somewhere else, in the privacy of his own Soul, Crowley smiles grimly - _it’s only the end of the World again - or is that just a day ending in ‘y’? _\- and burns through his Sanity so he can remain standing, so he can Imagine and Imagine and _Imagine _the Sword is no longer anything of the sort. He wonders if Bedlam’s blessing is still in effect, safeguarding a tiny scrap of his Sanity so he can’t go completely insane. He probably should have queried that earlier - it’s a bit late now…

The Wards that Crowley has just plunged the Sword through are not the only ones at the Cenotaph: there’s a second set around the steps at the bottom whose purpose is to deny War entry so she cannot simply scale the monument and reclaim her property. The lower Wards are not impassible, just a temporary inconvenience: a door that will eventually crumble and burst asunder against the battering-ram assault of War’s Will. The Wards cannot stop her. But they can - and do - buy time.

On top of the Cenotaph is a tall, skinny, man-shaped Demon in a black suit jacket and tight jeans; sleek jet-black wings arc above his shoulders. He’s kneeling around the grip of a Sword that is every blade that has ever existed. His head is bowed over with effort and his hair has fallen forward in dark copper spikes. His sunglasses have slipped lower on his nose and his butter-amber eyes are fiercely determined.

His lips are moving, and whilst his words cannot be heard above the maelstrom of noise, what he’s saying is: _“They shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning-hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.” _The Scripture feels like hot ash on his tongue. He says it again. _“They shall beat their swords into ploughshares…” _He’ll say it as many times as it takes, for as long as he can stand, for as long as he has Sanity to burn, for as long as within his Soul he screams at the Sword, _“Plough a fucking field!” _whilst hitting it against the diamond-tipped force of his Will. He can do this - he has to do this - he _will _fucking do this. He has Will and Imagination and Sanity and Pure Bastard Spite and he will raze them all to the ground so he might raise his middle finger to Heaven, Hell and the Almighty’s Pustulent Plan one last time.


	10. The Abbey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note this chapter contains descriptions of the act of self harm.

She grimaces and is about to put the bottle away in her pocket again when she pauses and instead pulls a surgical scalpel from the other pocket. _“Nekyia, bitches, I had a Classical education too…” _(Not a lie exactly, but it would have been more accurate if she’d ever studied Ancient Greek or been any good at Latin. She’d found it wasn’t the language that was important so much as the Form and the Voice - and both of those she has.)

She holds the scalpel sideways in her fist as if it’s imbued with as much meaning as an Athame. “Unknown Warrior, Unknown Warrior, Unknown Warrior: I call you thrice and will treat with only you. I have trespassed upon your place of holy rest, but I offer hospitality. Xenia - most sacred of rituals...” She smiles crookedly. “Alcohol!” and tips half the remaining vodka over the tomb, watching as it pools into the carved letters of the stone, and dribbles towards both the poppy-wreathes and her boots. “Let no other spirit taste of this unless I give them leave. The offering is mine, this blade is mine, not a one of you will gainsay me. In the name of hospitality, in the slaking of hunger and thirst, I call the Unknown Warrior to join me.”

Her eyes are still unfocused, but now they are focused somewhere else. Her voice holds a tone it did not before: it’s not the star-fall of a Demon’s threat, nor the clear upper-atmosphere of an Angel’s promise. It’s something purely Human: a trick really. The art of an actor or poet who can imbue their voice with such call and certainty, their stare with such wild fervor, that it is heeded unconditionally… She sees the shadows shift. _Pull up a chair, _she thinks sardonically.

Mercy never meant to be a Necromancer. It just happened when the first time she’d seriously put thought into killing herself she saw the ghost of a young man hanging from the attic beams above her room. She’d been startled, but not scared. Afterwards the only emotion she remembered was an overwhelming sadness. And knowing what _that _was like, she endeavored to speak to the ghost in her room and perhaps cheer him up - because who wanted to feel like _that _for eternity?

Necromancy, as a skill, is about on par with declaiming poetry well. Both are simple but take a lot of practice if one wishes to be proficient - and Mercy had, in both. Her left sleeve is pushed up above her elbow and the bright silver flash of a No. 10 scalpel blade on a No. 7 handle is against her wrist.

Wings shift of a sudden, pinions raising, and the quiet but solid string of Latin, Ancient Greek and (Hebrew? Aramaic? Atlantian?! - Mercy had no idea) pious invocations stop. “Really?_Must _you…?” he demands testily.

She’s cross-legged amidst poppy wreaths and flagstones scribed with pain and poetry washed in vodka. The Angel’s crowding over her, all feathers and velvet waistcoat; she’s glad of the shelter but annoyed by the interruption: you have to psych yourself up for this sort of blood loss and an audience makes it so much harder. She tries not to look at his wings again - they’re too bright. “Don’t you have prayers or something?” she snaps.

Aziraphale does. He straightens his coat and his wings huffily because this is Crowley’s plan - _their _plan - and he said he’d go along with it. He extends his Grace gently, ensuring nothing disturbs them in the nave._“__Domine, fac me servum pacis tuae, ubi odium, amorem seram; ubi iniuria, veniam; ubi dubium, fidem; ubi desperatio, spem; ubi caligo, lucem; ubi tristitia, laetitiam. O Domine coelestis, concede mihi ut ne tam petam consolari quam consolare, intellegi quam intelligere, amari quam amare. Nam in dando recipimus, in ignoscendo ignoscimur…”_

Mercy waits until the Angel’s attention is no longer upon her and swigs from the caustic bottle of vodka sitting open by her leg. “Cheers,” she says to the shadows. Then she returns the edge of the blade to the underside of her left wrist whilst staring at the carved marble in front of her. _“You must be hungry,” _she says. “I did promise sustenance. Unknown Warrior: this is my second gift to you. Life. Warmth. V_itae.”_

The surgical blade moves down and across in an agonizing and decisive line. She closes her eyes, curls over the pain, but holds her arm out so the heavy crimson raindrops land not in her lap, but upon the stone.

Anyone with Sight or a sliver of Power can perceive ghosts - talk to them too, if they learn how to listen first. But getting a ghost to do something, raising a Spirit from Oblivion, or talking to many Spirits at once? Well. The old ways are the best ways… In this case, the old ways are the rules of Xenia - Sacred Hospitality - that say a host must provide all a guest might need and give gifts besides, before a ritualistic exchange of names and histories bind their families in a subtle friendship that can last generations. (The rules of Xenia are so sacred that they have been invoked upon the battle field and caused warriors to cease fighting and exchange weapons and shields in lieu of gifts, for fear of angering the gods - all because their grandparents once supped together.)

Necromancy at its core is nothing but the code of Xenia subverted.

Arrive: a pitiful supplicant guest to a ghost’s resting place. Offer them food and drink when they have none and can provide nothing for you. (Spirits are always cold and frequently hungry, poor things, they never refuse an offering.) All the tables are turned in the instant they accept your gift: they are bound to repay your kindness however they can or face an eternity shunned and outcast for breaking the Scared Laws.

It’s grubby, as magical practices go, Mercy has to admit. So far she’s only ever asked ghosts to speak to her: a conversation and an exchange of names to satisfy Xenia’s ritual. (It does mean her phone contacts list is more full of names and dates than names and telephone numbers, but so what? She hates phone calls anyway.)

When she opens her eyes again the slate of the marble is suffused in the kind of luminous pallid green the Northern Lights manifest: the Dead are listening. It’s a start, but not enough - she knows it’s not enough.

She thinks about drinking more vodka, but there’s not much left, and this is gonna hurt either way. _Let’s see if I have the courage of my conviction… _Still staring resolutely at a less significant piece of floor - but damn, it all seems to be tombstones now - she brings the blade back up to her wrist without pause nine more times in increasingly violent succession, trying to get business done before the agony catches up with her.

She risks a glance at her arm, still held awkwardly out. She can see the mosaic of fatty tissue smiling wide under at least four of the cuts, dripping furiously. Another three are at shallower angles and aren’t dripping much at all. Two are like fast-leaking taps in need of a plumber: the blood darker, the drops heavier. The last - a deceptively small wound - bubbles quickly like strawberry-bright champagne; she’s clipped an artery. The pain’s definitely caught up now: her wrist is blazing with it, her forearm merely aching, but it’s deeply unpleasant all the same. She scrunches her eyes closed, her left arm tremoring now and her fingers twitching.

“Miss? Miss, what happened to you…?” A young man of about twenty-four years old is trying to pull her towards him as he would any wounded soldier - despite the fact she isn’t - and he doesn’t know what his mother would have to say about _that_. He unpacks one of his own kit-rationed bandages and tightly wraps her arm. “Miss - are you alright there? Who did this to you?”

Mercy focuses upon the young man with hazel eyes, short dun-coloured hair, and a deeply concerned expression whose lap she appears to be in. He’s wearing rough khaki with a Sam Browne belt, a Lee Enfield bayonet and a pistol. Judging by his coat he’s a Lieutenant, or possibly a Captain - she can’t see the stripes to count them… Then her Second Sight kicks in and recognizes the Unknown Warrior: the mud at his feet, the halo of barbed wire and poppies at his crown. The wings of bullets and bloody lungs and obliteration, of bandages and desperation. But he represents so much more: snow and hymns and football, brass Christmas tins, caltrops and gas attacks and field guns and Empire and mechanization and misery and the end of the World…

War and Death beyond counting.

Mourning and Monuments and Peace.

The Great (Last) War.

Only that final bit wasn’t true. She’d always thought she’d cope better with WWI if it _had _been the War To End All Wars - if the sacrifice had been worthy enough and the World hadn’t fucked it up all over again in 1940. _Poor bastards, _she thinks. _Poor fucking bastards. You didn’t deserve that. None of you did… _Her breath catches in her throat and she makes a panicked noise she wished she hadn’t and starts to cry.

“It’s alright Miss…” he offers, leaning her up against his chest in a business-like manner, much as a lifeguard might.

“It’s bloody _not…”_

“You’ll be right as a trivet,” he smiles, wanting her to believe it, and shifting her a little more to the crook of his arm so he can see whether her eyes are still open. “Ambulances will be here in no time, you see if they’re not…”

His voice registers like a twelve year old who’s found a half-drowned kitten and doesn’t know how to look after it, but needs it to live none the less. She doesn’t want his compassion, this dead young man who has suffered more than she ever will. It burns; and makes what she has to do so much worse. She doesn’t want to convince a Tommy to sacrifice his life a second time, but that’s the job: and she, occult junkie drama queen, signed up to it. She can’t ride out this much self-loathing as the weight of what she’s about to do hits home: Mercy forces it down instead like she’s swallowing back bile.

Out of the corner of her eye she can see other soldiers materializing. “You saved the World once…” She doesn’t feel well; thinking is getting harder. She struggles upright out of his arms. “You wanna go home. I’ve seen you all round the beacons - the - the memorials. They blaze like lighthouses and signal fires but you get stuck somehow like… like… moths…”

“Miss?”

She waves a dripping arm in the vague direction of the Cenotaph. “H-he’s trying to make peace - you have to help him - please?”

“But Miss, you’re _hurt_…” There is nothing but Humanity in that voice: someone who has seen Horrors they could neither combat nor heal and is desperate to make a difference and fix something - anything - her…

For six very long seconds, she allows herself to enjoy the impossibility - the stupid tragic romance - of curling up with him, to be held in his arms whilst waiting for a WWI Camion that would never come. She feels the cool steel of the scalpel blade still in her right hand. “Sorry mate,” she says with a wobbly smile. “Can’t fix me I’m afraid.”

The Unknown Warrior has in his way been worshipped by all of England since 1920. He’s never been formally recognized by the Church, but he’s as significant and as Holy as any Saint come Armistice Day. He is a very powerful symbol. But he’s also a ghost; and Mercy is a Necromancer.

She grips the scalpel like an Athame once more: a thing of power, a symbol of her own. “By my blood upon your tomb and the strength I’ve granted you, in the name of Peace I command you: go to the Cenotaph and stand against War. _Do it!” _She pushes, feeling raw and wretched even as she does so.

She watches the Unknown Warrior stand and march dutifully out of the abbey: she can’t tell whether blood or poppies fill his footsteps. She presses her left palm into the cooling puddle of blood atop the tomb. “Call the beacons,” she mutters. “The - the crosses an’ memorials an’ wherever you all got stuck trying to come home. Come home - come home - we need you…” She struggles to unwind the bandage from her arm but can’t quite tell whether it exists or not: is she pulling at cotton or tearing at skin? She gives up and returns to reclaiming the vodka so she can take a harsh but needed mouthful. Somewhere above her the Angel is praying - or so she assumes - _do _Angels really pray? A sad and horrible thought lodges in Mercy’s heart like a shard of glass between her ribs. She doesn’t believe God is real or good or merciful - not unless They’re actually spending all their energy saving Humanity from Cthulhu…

She turns her head to look at the beautiful dark stone, awash with alcohol and brash, stringy crimson. _“Fuck,” _she says very softly, her shoulders slumping. “I don’t like being pushed into my own decisions,” she adds faintly in explanation. She might as well speak aloud, it’s not as if she’d thought to write and leave a note. “Sorry Ben. Turns out I really am a bigger basket case than you.” A grimace. “This had better bloody work,” she growls at the Universe and raises the blade to her jugular. She grips the handle of the scalpel, trying not to think about her next action but needing a push because _‘After three - one, two - three!’ _is not going to be strong enough.

The Bentley’s song for her comes to mind and she drags the lyrics gratefully across her lips.

_“__Watch me lose her_  
_It’s almost like losing myself_  
_ Give her my soul_  
_ and let them take somebody else_  
_ Get away from me…!”_

Her right hand plunges down and pulls away again with difficulty. _Oh Christ… _She slumps sideways onto the tomb, bright arterial red bubbling from the puncture in her neck, staining her cheek and the lilac of her hair.

In the Abbey’s shadow-self, the Witch sits up; this version of the Abbey is packed - thronged - with soldiers. The majority are in Tommy-hats and khaki, but there are other uniforms from different ages too.

“Atten-SHUN!” she bellows, pleased to note she can still speak and that she hasn’t forgotten her father’s lessons on how to project one’s voice or take advantage of the acoustics of a grand building. “Get up!”

The ghosts look at her.

She hates the words, but they’re unspooling in her head and onto her tongue, so she declaims them with every last ounce of passion and sorrow in her.

_“The sand of the desert is sodden red, --_  
_Red with the wreck of a square that broke; --_  
_ The Gatling’s jammed and the Colonel dead,_  
_ And the regiment blind with dust and smoke._  
_ The river of death has brimmed his banks,_  
_ And England’s far, and Honour a name,_  
_ But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks:_  
_ ‘Play up! play up! and play the game!’”_

She’s not sure whether to thank or curse A-Level Eng-Lit for making her study WWI poetry; but she does appear to have everyone’s attention, so she utilizes it. “_We need to kill War!” _she shouts: and that’s the pitch right there, the only one she really has. “You don’t have to care - why should you? Other than, y’know, selfishly? Watching everything you worked for, everything you strove to provide your children with… torn away from you and every generation to come. We can make Peace tonight and maybe forever - but I need you - all of you. I need you to march one final time. One final sacrifice I’ve no right to ask for - one last chance to save _everything. _Take of my blood,” she invites. “Take of my strength. And march and stop War - stop the end of the World,” she entreats.

It’s not great as speeches go; she wishes she’d thought to prepare. Then again, hadn’t the dead had enough of _Dulce Et Decorum Est _and all that bullshit? No, there was just her: a bloody minded Witch from a future they’d died to protect, feeding them the last of her blood on the tomb that represented them all.

“They called yours the Great War and the War to End All Wars. They fucking _lied.” _She chokes on the word, she’s always loathed WWI: there are swathes of Europe she can’t set foot in without wanting to fall to her knees and sob because it’s too much; trenches and phosgene and atrocity and the sheer weight of the loss and the Dead is beyond bearing. Second Sight has a lot of drawbacks.

“War killed you - all of you...” (For some reason she can see flashes of blood red armour and scarlet hair and a patience and vindictiveness that men in their rage can never match.) “That crimson bitch has had it in for us from the start. And maybe it’s our fault,” she adds, thoughts beginning to skitter, “I mean, we made her…” (Concentrate!) “How about we unmake her? One last fight: no more War...”

The ghosts are attentive; whether it’s her words or the blood she’s so liberally spilled is hard to say, but every set of spectral eyes are turned towards her. Her shadow-self sways - _shit_\- she’s out of time. “They’re at the Cenotaph. Hold the line against War. Protect him as he destroys the Sword!” It’s not _Henry V, _but she imbues it with everything she has left… Wait - what day is it anyway? October the twenty _what? _“You’ve _got_to be fucking kidding me,” she mutters as her shadow-self drops and sinks back into her body.

_“And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, From this day to the ending of the World, But we in it shall be remember’d…” _Her lips move over the familiar quote; her father had always liked that speech: she’d learnt to declaim it like Olivier from a young age. The language is comforting as she feels her heart stutter - stutter again - and stop. _Finally got it right..._She’s often wondered what it would feel like. And now she knows.

She feels cold. And very scared. And then she doesn’t feel much of anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nekyia - Ancient Greek practice of Necromancy as described in Homer etc
> 
> Domine, fac me servum pacis tuae... - 'Oh Lord make me an instrument of thy peace...' The Latin form of the Peace Prayer of St Francis.
> 
> “The sand of the desert is sodden red..." is from 'Vitaï Lampada' by Sir Henry Newbolt
> 
> "Dulce et Decorum Est" (Latin: It is sweet and fitting) is a WWI poem by Wilfred Owen
> 
> "And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by..." part of the St Crispin's day speech from Shakespeare's 'Henry V'.


	11. You And Whose Army?

Aziraphale stands still within the radius of his wings in the nave of Westminster Abbey and his corporeal form continues to murmur prayers of Divinity, of Love, of Peace. But something within his soul is being called to the Cenotaph and despite his charge he cannot deny the summons. It’s not that they are overpowering, it’s that there’s a part of him that doesn’t _want _to deny the call - that needs to answer it. So he does, without even noticing the growing pool of blood at his shoes.

Between one moment and the next, Aziraphale’s True Form has materialised at the monument. Above him, atop the Cenotaph, he can feel both the Sword and one bloody-minded Feathered Serpent uselessly screaming at it.

His heart sinks a little with the weight of promises betrayed. _You promised me this would work - I believed you. I went along with this plan - despite the Necromancy and the Witch and the - the Everything! _

And then something in his mind stills, because - _You never promised me, _he realises. _You made this up off the cuff. But you never promised. You came up with this and were so insistent it would work… _No, that was wrong. Crowley had _implied_\- wildly and maniacally it would work - and Aziraphale had _inferred _it would, as he’d been meant to do. Why? Why had Crowley risked everything so recklessly - so definitively - if he wasn’t certain? Half heard hissed words come back to him. ‘_I’m not having you wield that fucking sword, angel - and that’s the end of it.’ _

Oh.

Oh dear.

Stubborn Serpent.

War steps into focus like the moment of glory when a victory flag reaches the top of its pole and snaps out in a perfect breeze. She comes with the whisper of a thousand, thousand conflicts at her back and the surety and fervour of a million righteous causes. She strides around the Cenotaph and its crumbling wards to end this farce and to reclaim her property… She doesn’t care about Heaven or Hell and brushes the wraiths of the Dead away like someone absently shoo’ing flies. The presence of the Principality’s original form snags her attention however. Mouth red, teeth sharp, eyes crimson, she smiles. “I am due to ride tonight, and none shall stay my path.”

_“I’m Afraid I Shall.” _Aziraphale’s shimmering True Angelic Form, nearly twelve foot tall, and with a more complicated arrangement of wings and eyes than his corporeal body has, stands between the Ultima Ratio, the Cenotaph, and Crowley and the Sword. His vast, numerous wings spread across the road and arc up, pointedly shielding the Cenotaph from sight.

“Let me pass, Angel.”

A surprisingly mild voice comes out of Aziraphale’s True Form; it’s a voice carefully modulated by millennia of not crushing empires and not slaughtering the Enemies of the Lord. “Oh, no, I don’t think so. Not tonight.”

“I know you, Destroyer,” War says, part taunt, part seduction. “I have watched when you slew the army of the Assyrians. This is as much your time as it is mine. Tell me that you do not long to armour up again and become Memitim, the Executioner? Hear the cry of _Gott Mitt Uns _as the Holy Crusade rolls across the heretics, feel the Unity and Purity - the perfect simplicity - of Us versus Them. Feel the strength of seeing feeble enemies cower, quail, and break before you. Don’t deny it. You _yearn _to taste that exaltation again.”

The Angel stares at War, itching to call the Sword of Divine Will into his hand, either to destroy this monstrous interloper or to join with her in one last glorious campaign. He strains towards the latter. It’s so much simpler that way: it’s Command and Purpose... The sound of _Deus Vult _fills his ears and the Trumpets call piercingly out for Justice; he cricks his neck. He opens his mouth to bark a challenge, can almost feel the rough leather and braided wire wrapping of the handle, the balanced weight of Ravager as its edge aches to fall...

_“N-nation sshall not… lift up ssword against nation… neither sshall they learn war any more.”_

He can hear the Demon’s exhausted, sibilant hiss: saying the words, no matter the cost. Burning himself to create one perfect moment - one second of victory for Peace. For them. For the World.

At that moment, the sheer absurdity of the situation washes over him like a cold shower of London rain. Here he stands, an Angel of the Lord, defending a Demon carrying out a Ritual to unmake War, having stood watch over a Witch summoning Ghosts.

_We’re on _our _side…_

_Yes,_he finally accepts fully, no longer tripping over pebbles of conscience or principle. _We are - we are on our side. _There is a delicious and unexpected strength in that.

His light fades from the blinding glare of the righteous anger of Mashhit, Destroyer of the Lord, to the more subdued cream and gentle gold of Aziraphale, Principality and part time book seller, an Angel who’s just doing his best to keep things going on Earth with Goodwill.

“I Cannot Lie To You, War, I Am Tempted To Bring Back The Way That It Was. I Do Remember The Fire And The Fury, The Mornings When All That Is Before You Is A Defeated Foe, The Satisfaction Of Doing The Lord’s Will. And Yet, And Yet…” The terrible harmonics of his voice drop. “And yet I also remember the sobbing howls of the mothers as they found the empty cribs, of the dying - begging for surcease from their wounds - of the endless accusing eyes of the Dead. So, perhaps it is right and proper that I should turn away from temptation: and deliver this World from the evil of annihilation.” His brows are lowered, his lips taught. “I scribed these Wards. You shall not pass.”

War is still furious but for a moment she looks vindictively pleased.

The Angel’s True Form knows a moment of confusion before remembering their principle duty in accordance with Crowley’s plan is the protection of one Mortal Witch. “Oh _fuck,” _the Principality curses, returning to the Abbey and his corporeal form as fast as he is able.

* * *

Aziraphale’s rote of prayers stall and stutter as he comes back to himself fully in the Abbey and feels Death approach.

Azrael is calm as ever, striding with inevitable step to the end of the nave and the tomb they stand on - or the Principality stands on at least, in a pool of brash and cooling scarlet. Azrael - unlike anyone else - truly does have all the time in the World.

Aziraphale looks towards his feet and drops to his knees immediately - “You foolish child!” he scolds, forcing a not insignificant Miracle upon Mercy’s neck and heart, healing one and kick-starting the other.

The Witch’s lungs inflate with a choked gasp and her eyes open wide: the mottled blue of her irises almost eclipsed by the expanse of her pupils. She breathes for a moment or two before realizing her left arm _really _hurts and she’s face down in a puddle of blood. She hugs her arm against herself and twists her hips, levering her body onto its back. She can feel blood congealing in her hair and soaking the back and shoulders of her coat. “Did it work?” she asks because whilst she has a thousand questions, none of them are gonna be worth a damn if the answer to that first one is ‘no’.

“I’m not sure, my dear,” the Angel says absently, trying to sense what’s happening at the Cenotaph.

She’s shivering, her body in shock. She’s reminded of when she had her wings tattoo’d and, unable to stop crying and shaking she had none the less lain back on the table and put herself under the needle for more hours of the same. She rolls her head, trying to catch the gleam of silver that would show where the scalpel had disappeared to: it’s mostly underneath Aziraphale’s shoe. “I need that,” she tells him, gesturing vaguely.

“No,” the Angel says gently. “I don’t believe you do.” And he snaps his fingers.

* * *

Crowley doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s running low - possibly even on empty. He has for example, amidst the pain and the furious Imagining, started to hallucinate. Or at least he assumes he has. There’s an army marching down Whitehall towards the monument. They don’t seem entirely real, but he’s pretty certain they’re there. Most are in khaki, but some are in scarlet or dun in coats of an older cut. The first three lines give a shout and pick up the pace as if some predetermined signal has announced they’re free to sprint towards their goal.

Crowley is too preoccupied, too pained to remember the Necromantic side of his plan right now and assumes this is more of War’s doing. He’d try to stop it, but he hasn’t the energy to spare. He’s surprised when those lines break into and are absorbed by the Cenotaph; more surprised yet that the next time he hits the Sword of War, it finally buckles.

* * *

No one with enough psychic ability is in the streets of Whitehall at 10.24pm on the night of October the 25th, which is a blessing in itself for universal sanity. An army of ghosts march along the road, heading to War and a monument to Peace. Voices, ragged and uncertain at first gain strength from one another, until the familiar tunes put a spring in their step and delirious grins on their faces: because they know this. This giddy hopelessness of All or Nothing. They’ve gambled before and lost - and now they have a second chance.

It isn’t only the words of the unlikely young lady at the Abbey: they can feel War - they knew her bugle. There is something else too, something struggling to smother the bloodcurdling call to arms. Something like poppies and ivy and feathers… But it isn’t strong enough, and inch by inch it’s failing…

They’re here now. They’ll steady the lines one last time.

_But of all the World’s great heroes,_  
_There’s none that can compare…_

_It’s a long way to Tipperary_  
_It’s a long way to go…_

_Tuppence I got f’selling me cloak_  
_Tuppence f’selling me blanket…_

_Though, by my soul, the English do prate_  
_Lillibullero bullen a la…_

_Silent night…_

_And far beyond this mortal shore_  
_We’ll meet with those who have gone before…_

_“They sshall beat their sswordssinto ploughssharesss… and their sspearss into pruning-hookss… nation sshall not lift up ssword against nation… neither sshall they learn war any more.” _It’s a rote: a never ending loop, and he has no idea how many times he’s said it. He’s on both knees now, head bowed over his forearms, still holding on to the grip and pommel of the bloody Sword.

War is there: a screaming mad scarlet harpy. She won’t retreat - will never retreat - but she can’t advance any closer either.

_Fuck attrition, _Crowley thinks vaguely not wanting to contemplate how long he might have to keep this up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ultima Ratio - the last resort - i.e., force and violence  
Gott mit uns - God with us  
Deus vult - God wills it (the cry of the Crusaders)
> 
> "But of all the World’s great heroes..." (Traditional) – The British Grenadiers
> 
> "It’s a long way to Tipperary..." British music hall song written by Henry James "Harry" Williams
> 
> "Tuppence I got f’selling me cloak..." (Traditional) - Rogue's March
> 
> "Though, by my soul, the English do prate..." (Traditional) - Lillibullero
> 
> "Silent night..." was sung by the soldiers in the trenches during the brief Christmas truce of 1914
> 
> "And far beyond this mortal shore..." (Traditional hymn) - The Good Old Way


	12. Ashes, Ashes

Mercy wakes up lying on top of the covers of her bed. She feels like shit; not hung-over exactly, but shaky and soul-weary. She makes an irritated noise at the darkness, uncertain what the time is. Her head hurts, her chest hurts, but her left arm hurts most of all. Oh dear - _one of those nights, _she thinks. And then from the faint sodium-glow of the streetlights through her window, she recognizes that over her usual clothes, instead of her father’s coat, she appears to be wearing a Sam Browne belt, a Lee Enfield bayonet and a WWI greatcoat, the left sleeve of which feels decidedly soggy. She isn’t quite sure whether to laugh or cry; she figures the coat has been through worse than she ever has so finally settles on curling up and hugging it whilst wiping her nose on the bedclothes and trying not to giggle.

There is an apologetic knock on her door a few minutes later.

She freezes. “Y-yeah?”

“Oh good - you are here - I wasn’t sure you were in or not. I made tea. Want some?”

“Please.”

Ben opens the door and invites himself in with a flourish, two mugs of tea in one hand. He scowls and flicks on the light switch. Even in normal clothes Ben still looks like a brown-haired misplaced Legolas with less poise but just as much cinematic flair. He wrinkles his nose and murmurs, “Again?”

“Fuck your ‘again’,” she snaps defensively. “I haven’t done this in ages.”

He puts the tea down, all the better to strike an attitude. “If by ‘ages’ you mean three and a half weeks, then you are correct. You’re hair’s matted with blood and this room reeks like an iron foundry - how many stitches did you get this time?” Ben isn’t usually flamboyant or overly dramatic: he reserves that as a defense for when he’s anxious or scared. Mercy’s self harm generally scares the shit out of him.

She tries to hide her face. “It’s not - I didn’t - I mean I did, it’s… If I say I don’t know, are you gonna shout at me?”

He huffs a sigh and then offers an impish smile. “Only if this melodrama is over that goth thot…”

_“Don’t call him that…”_

“…at the ‘Phige you hung on to all evening.”

“Shuttup - you fancied his boyfriend!”

“At least _I _was in with a chance!”

She laughs despite herself. “Nah fam, not that one, trust me.”

He makes a little moue of annoyance, wondering if he should feel insulted. He reminds himself that he’s an ethical slut and that he does not poach other people’s partners so it’s all academic anyway. He offers her the cup of tea and she obligingly drags herself upright so she might take it. “Is this your new look now? Full historical regalia as an alternative to pajamas? Jesus, you didn’t actually go outside with that pig-sticker, did you?”

“Fuck off,” she admonishes mildly, sipping her tea. “It was A Night.”

“I can see that, darling. When I have ‘A Night’ there’s a lot of dancing to loud music with alcohol involved - also, if I’m lucky - some fantastically dirty sex. No one’s night involves blood loss and historical costuming apart from _yours_.”

_“Wahoo,” _she mumbles, not entirely sure why she just said it.

“Were you out getting stitches or do I need to drag your arse to A&E?” he asks sounding World-weary.

She puts her hand to her neck and then falters, rubbing her palm across her jugular because didn’t she ram a scalpel into it? Surely she…? She did! Didn’t she…?

“Your _arm_,” Ben reminds her in a tone of infinite patience.

She wriggles the coat sleeve back. Her arm is tightly bandaged in an old-fashioned sort of way. The dressing’s dark and mottled with blood, but it’s not actively dripping so she can’t summon the energy to be alarmed.

“It’s alright Mercy, you can tell me,” he soothes with mocking gentleness. “Did you have a mental breakdown whilst LARPing?”

She rolls her eyes. “Thank you for the tea, you’re a marvelous friend, fuck off.”

“Keep this up and I’ll confiscate your blades.”

“Try and I’ll set you on fire,” she promises.

“Darling, I’m already on fire…”

“Fuck off Benjamin,” she tries to say it deadpan and without smiling, but can’t. “Go away. I hate you.”

He takes his tea with him and blows her a kiss. “I hate you too,” he promises gently. He pauses at the door. “I’ve got a whole packet of chocolate hobnobs, not to mention two series of Queer Eye on my computer and a very fluffy blanket in my room. Y’know, if you fancy washing the blood off you and putting on some actual pyjamas?”

She gives him a shaky and grateful smile. “Yeah, think I’d like that actually…”

* * *

The main force of the ghost army has arrived to fill the road of Parliament Street. Crowley feels it - as does War. Her face contorts and her fingers clutch like claws as she pours every effort into reclaiming the Sword Crowley clings on to.

_With a tow, row row row, row row row, _  
_To the British Grenadiers…_

_It’s a long way to Tipperary _  
_To the sweetest girl I know…_

_If ever I ‘list for a soldier again_  
_The devil shall be me sergeant…_

_The law’s on their side and the devil knows what_  
_Lillibullero bullen a la…_

_Holy Night…_

_And shout to think we have gained the day  
By marching in the good old way…_

He’s not certain he’s fully conscious most of the time. It’s quite the effort to stand against War in the physical realm whilst trying to destroy her symbol in the Ethereal one.

“Ploughshare!” he screams for the umpteenth time. _“Fucking _ploughshare!”

He can keep this up.

He _has _to keep this up.

* * *

There is a cacophony of sound that resolves itself into words and the pounding of boots upon the road: _“The game’s afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’” _The army surrounds, pours upon, and in turn is subsumed by the Cenotaph.

* * *

If one were to line up every single Denizen of Hell and see if they could force the Sword of War to become a ploughshare, only two would make the grade: Lucifer and Crowley. And of those two, only one would have an interest in trying.

The Sword, for a second, is subject to Crowley’s sorely over-taxed Will.

“FUCKING PLOUGHSHARE YOU FLAME-Y PIECE OF SHIT!” he bellows.

* * *

War, with a scream that burns like napalm, flickers out of Existence.

* * *

Aziraphale runs as fast as he’s able up Parliament Street: he can see in the streetlights the white of the monument up ahead and the fading light of soul energy coursing round it: a faint corona of turquoise flickering lime and violet at the edges.

The road is too long to tolerate so the Angel snaps his fingers again. (This is the second time he’s helped avert the Apocalypse - he has blacker marks on his slate right now then frivolous Miracle use.) He pitches up on the lowest step of the eastern side of the Cenotaph as the last of the soul energy seeps away.

Thirty-five feet up on Portland stone, Crowley continues to glare balefully at the aftermath of Apocalyptic energy once it’s vanished from the Earthly Plane. Finally he lowers his gaze to the ploughshare rammed into the top of the monument. He pulls his palms and fingers away from the metal with difficulty; there’s an odd crackling noise. He stands, steps back, and looks with disinterest at the charred and skeletal remains of his hands. “Ploughshare, _bitch_,” he rasps before dropping. He doesn’t stagger or sway or raise a hand to try to stop it - not that it would have helped: Crowley drops straight off the edge of the Cenotaph, wings streaming behind him, landing heavily onto the steps below with a dull crack.

_“No!”_

His skin is ash pale and the dark lengths of his lashes merge with the bruises of exhaustion that have bloomed beneath his eyes. Aziraphale kneels beside him, gathering the Demon up in his arms, trying to work his way past the enormity of what has happened so he can figure out what to do next.

“‘Ngel?” It’s scarcely a breath.

“Yes, my dear?”

“D’ we do it?”

Aziraphale smiles and blinks his eyes, trying not to cry. “Yes. Yes my dear, we did.”

He makes a vague noise that might be acknowledgement, shudders once and is still.

“Crowley? Crowley my dear, wake up. You can’t sleep. _Crowley!” _The Demon makes no reply and the Angel is suddenly very scared in a way that he hadn’t been when facing down War.

Because now they’d won: they’d averted the Apocalypse - again - and this meant that the many eyes of Heaven and the many hungry mouths of Hell would be turning towards them. And Aziraphale, selfish, foolish Principality that he is, desperately wants Crowley at his side when that happens.

“Crowley… I need you. _Please_, Crowley!”


	13. We All Fall Down

He dreams he can feel Aziraphale's sunlight presence. It’s an old dream, one that is cruel in its mercy. It always comes to him when he has fallen apart: broken into so many sharp fragments he knows he can never put himself back together. This is it: his Imagination has been rendered hollow, his Will razed to ash, his Sanity squandered, and his Spite - which he prided himself on being an inexhaustible resource - is riven to naught.

When he is ready to give in, that is when he dreams of sunlight. It isn’t true sunlight of course, but that is what it feels like: the Angel’s goodness and care dancing in golden patterns across his closed eyelids and washing over his battered psyche in soothing waves.

_Come along my dear… _

He can almost hear the words, gentle, encouraging, fussy.

_Let’s get you back on your feet… _

And he does, somehow, get back on his feet because he’s never been able to refuse the Angel anything and doesn’t have the wherewithal to start now… And then he wakes and realizes he still exists in this Nowhere Hell of infinite Darkness and he curses bitterly in Enochian because he isn’t Insane or written out of Existence and so will have to endure this emptiness forever, falling apart all over again. Well. Didn’t he always say Aziraphale was a bit of a bastard?

He can feel the light’s persistent encouragement.

_Come along, my dear. You can wake up now. You can come back. It’s safe. _

Crowley knows that has to be a lie but it’s such a tempting one to believe. The idea of safety is an intoxicating one - he knows he shouldn’t entertain it, but he is damn it, entertaining it with a three course meal at the Ritz and drinks back at his for good measure.

_There isss no sssafe, _he hisses at it.

_Come back my dear. You’re safe._

_You’re lying, _he spits miserably. But the sunlight has never promised things before, it’s only encouraged by its presence. So perhaps… perhaps…

Hope - the worst evil in Pandora’s box unfurls in his mangled soul. Tiredly, painfully, Crowley tries to piece himself back together. It’s a botch job: the sort of job that would have people sucking air through their teeth in disbelief and muttering, _‘You’ve really had some cowboys in here. I mean, there’s shoddy, but this?’ _But it can’t be helped. He’s been broken so many times he can’t tell anymore how the pieces fit together - can barely remember that they ever did.

_Come back, dear boy. You can wake up, _the light entreats.

Crowley would grumble at its nagging but he hasn’t the energy. Eventually, after an Eternity, there is some simulacrum of what once was the Demon Crowley.

_Come back…_

* * *

Aziraphale refuses to fidget, instead schooling his mouth into a tightly sarcastic smile of the type Crowley so frequently utilized when he was annoyed.

Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon: four Angelic nightmares in very expensive suits.

“I am rather busy at present,” he says.

“That’s what we came to ask about,” Uriel intones. “We want to know what your… busyness has involved recently.”

Michael steps forward. “You are aware, of course, that Heaven had some rather pressing matters of its own to attend to? Matters that even now should be evolving into Important Events?”

“War,” Sandalphon elaborates in case Aziraphale doesn’t get it.

Michael shoots him a look of thinly veiled irritation. “No doubt you received the Heavenly missive,” she continues in the icy tones of someone who would very much like to edit Heaven’s mailing list so _some _Angels are no longer CC’d in.

“Yes,” Aziraphale manages in an attitude that’s almost breezy. “I was aware of upcoming events.”

“They didn’t,” Gabriel says. “Come up. Were in fact cancelled.” His smile is wide and hard and insincere beneath the violet of his eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Both Michael and Uriel lean in - Uriel especially - just itching to hear the Principality’s confession and deal with his disgrace.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says mildly. “Do you know why your event was cancelled?”

Gabriel’s mask of even temperament slips: he’s had a very stressful few days. “Because someone turned the Sword of War into a fucking Ploughshare!” he yells.

“Ah,” Aziraphale acknowledges. “What a pity. Are you able to turn it back?”

“It’s currently stuck in the top of a London monument,” Uriel hisses.

“It cannot at this time be removed,” Sandalphon adds in the voice of one who has tried. Repeatedly.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says again. “I see your predicament.”

“In the light of your perspicacity on the matter,” Michael says tightly, “we were wondering if you had any insights you were willing to share?”

“Ah, well,” he says with mock regret, “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I was busy, in my Divinely given Role of Earthly Principality, safeguarding the life of a Mortal upon the most Holy and Sanctified Ground. Have you perhaps thought to enquire, you know…” He points with both sets of fingers, “Down Below?”

“We are making thorough enquiries,” Uriel says.

Aziraphale smiles. “Jolly good. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

* * *

He opens his eyes to darkness. He cannot move and is too disorientated and pained to know where he is. All he knows is that the light lied. And Hope is a siren-song bitch that deserves to burn in the heart of a neutron star. And he deserves every wrench of pain that’s fragmenting his soul anew, thundering through the firmament of his essence and shattering it to smithereens - because he had believed it. Crowley lets out a howl of inhuman fury and despair and falls into the void, disintegrating and burning to ash as he goes.

* * *

Aziraphale can sense that something is wrong the moment he enters the flat. The flat has never felt particularly strongly of Crowley unless he’s in it; as if the flat makes the bed, vanishes the dust and cleans itself of the vestiges of his aura every time he leaves, rendering it pristine. It feels that way now, which it shouldn’t, because the Angel left one A J Crowley comatose and tucked up in bed.

“Crowley?” he calls, unable to believe that in the scant hour he’s been out the Demon has woken up and gone walkabouts. Besides, wouldn’t he have taken the Bentley?

The Angel is fretting now because he cannot understand the feeling of emptiness within the space. “Crowley?”

The houseplants are subdued and do not acknowledge his passing as he moves through the flat, checking each room as he goes. He reaches the bedroom - “Oh my dear…” His relief stutters out like a gutted candle. There is Crowley, lying in bed exactly as the Angel left him. Only everything that is Crowley is absent. The Angel hurries over - the corporation has breath and a pulse but it doesn’t seem to house a Demon, at least not that Aziraphale can tell. There’s no natural hum of power, no Occult aura of snakeskin and whisky, candle smoke and guitar chords. To people who are sensitive to such things, Angels and Demons do not look entirely Human even when walking the Earthly Plane. They create a cognitive dissonance in those with Second Sight because what they really look like is a star or a black hole wearing a Human skin in the same way children wear badly made Hallowe’en costumes. They may _present _as Human, but they’re not. (Ceci n’est pas une pipe…)

Right now Aziraphale can’t sense a single scrap of the Serpent of Eden’s presence in the body on the bed, and this is causing him - not unjustly - to panic. He begins to pace, lifting his hand to his brow and then dropping it. Settling one hand on his hip before moving it again so he might wring both hands together, all the while glancing back and forth between the corporeal form on the bed and the middle distance of Nowhere In Particular as if looking for Crowley there. His thoughts skitter, flutter and jabber at one another like angry ducks looking for a scrap of bread.

_Think! _he commands himself wretchedly. Heaven and Hell like to keep tabs on things - it’s what all the blessed paperwork’s for. One signs a chit and _multiple _forms before one is allowed a corporeal one! No one leaves something that valuable just lying about… A glance at the bed because it seemed that’s what Crowley had done. No, he reassures himself, even he wouldn’t - the paperwork he’d get would take fifty years for a start and that’s before the reprimand... The Angel’s thoughts hurry on - he never likes thinking about Hell’s ‘reprimands’ when Crowley is involved. If Hell or Heaven had come to fetch him they would have left him in his body. Which means the Demon has to be there somehow, even if he doesn’t appear to be. Even if Aziraphale can’t sense him…

Aziraphale blinks his eyes, swallows and gives a little shake of the head, clinging on to the famous maxim of Sherlock Holmes and the philosophy of Ockham’s Razor. He does not find them as comforting as he’d like. “Oh Crowley,” he says, his expression pained. “What have you done?”

His agitation stills as he recalls another time, a different situation, when his heart had cried those words but his body had been too shocked to. _“F-fucking feathers,” _the Serpent had uttered, confused and triumphant having mutilated his own wings.

The Angel’s brow furrows, gaze drawn back to the body in the bed. He’s certain Crowley will not like what he’s about to do. _But_, he thinks fiercely, _if you insist on being absent, dear boy, then you don’t get a casting vote._

He stands to the right of the bed, takes a deep breath, then another, and a third for good measure.

* * *

It is a little known fact that Heaven has four languages: Seraphic, Kherubic, Ophanic, and Enochian. They are more the difference between Old, Middle, Early Modern, and Modern English than true separate languages in their own right. (It is interesting to note that Hell has four languages too but they are nothing more than incredibly strong local dialects coming from Dis, Pandaemonium, Stygia, or Agrace.)

* * *

Being a Principality, Aziraphale’s first language is Enochian; but, being a bookworm and what Humanity would label a ‘colossal nerd’, he’d taught himself some Ophanic and a lot of Kherubic because he thought it sounded nice. He’s not certain which language would be best to use in this situation; the Creation he wishes to speak with was crafted after the Fall, but those she ministers to were created before it. Perhaps she is fluent in all eight languages?

He settles on Kherubic, prays he isn’t too rusty, folds his hands by his pocket watch chain, closes his eyes, and begins. _“Sedjem a-hevet, ai Nebthet ne Hadji’a Ankha: im ha’af ka em a’a ansuul ne kh’ry. Ib an senef, kus emtep an sedji. K’seshey en wen dahu-ah er Itret, in A-anetjret shepsut.” _The words leave his tongue with a scent of incense, desert sands, and the unfathomable depth of the night sky.

Nothing happens.

After a few moments Aziraphale risks opening one eye.

The Invocation didn’t work. His shoulders sag and then straighten almost immediately - perhaps he wasn’t formal enough? He’d thought she’d eschew the ceremonial correctness of ‘polite’ form and turn up where needed - she had before. But maybe this was different? A note saying _‘__Come__ at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same,’ _was all very well when sent to an acquaintance, but you couldn’t send it to just anyone and expect it to be heeded… He bites his lip and begins a mental list of what supplies he’ll need to do the prayer a second time, all pomp and circumstance included.

The Angel’s alphabetical list has got as far as ‘oil of clove’ when Our Lady of Bedlam manifests in her habitual eye-blinding flicker of star-shine. Aziraphale flinches and resists the temptation to manifest his wings.

The Thing playing dress-up in a young woman’s skin has bone white hair, fully golden eyes, very little patience, and is wearing an 18thcentury gown of dark blue silk. Her hands are on her hips and she looks a study of displeasure - she usually does.

The Angel glances at the occupant of the bed and then back at her. “Please?” he asks in a voice close to breaking.

She strides over and up onto the bed with the poise any World-class ballerina would kill for, tiptoeing in her satin slippers along the outermost edge of the mattress until she’s level with the Demon’s chest. Then she drops down in a rustle of skirts and leans by the pillows to glower at Crowley with blank, sun-fire eyes. “I’ve already fixed you twice,” she says with the exasperation of a parent faced with combing an entire hedgerow out of their child’s hair for the third day running. She looks up at the Angel. “What the bloody Firmament did he do now?”

He’s stuck between wishing to defend Crowley and worrying that if he tells her she might refuse to give her aid. She’s an Angel after all, perhaps she views Armageddon as part of the proper Celestial agenda? He realizes she’s still waiting for an answer. “He - he turned the Sword of War into a Ploughshare.”

Her eyebrows spring up. “Did he now?” she says.

“Please…?” The Principality’s voice is a semi-tone away from begging.

She scowls at Crowley and then again at the Angel. “I can’t do this here.”

“Sanctuary?” His throat is very dry.

“YES.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and gives a small nod that runs through his neck and jaw like a tremor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sedjem a-hevet, ai Nebthet ne Hadji’a Ankha: im ha’af ka em a’a ansuul ne kh’ry.  
Ib an senef, kus emtep an sedji. K’seshey en wen dahu-ah er Itret, in A-anetjret shepsut."  
\- Translates as: Heed my-call, oh Lady of Broken Mirrors: there is a soul in need of succour. Hearts do bleed, and minds do break. I invoke the right to Sanctuary, by the Almighty’s grace.


	14. Dante And Beatrice

The cell is as he remembers: a beautifully carved monastic room facing narrow cloisters and a gorgeous garden that is neither perfectly tended nor wild but a late-summer’s balance between the two, with grass and wildflowers daring to grow a little longer in the sunlight. As before there is a low wooden cot furnished with a felt blanket and several dark sheepskins: Crowley lies motionless beneath them. Bedlam is stalking round the cot, still in her Spitalfield silks, the heels of her court shoes tapping on the flagstones. “He’s broken bones and his hands are barely there. Have you already tried?” she asks without preamble. The question is thrown to the Angel, but she’s still staring at Crowley.

“Tried?”

“To bring him back.”

He’s offended. “Of course I have!”

Sun-fire eyes narrow. “What happened?”

Aziraphale wrings his hands. “I thought it was working! He - he said I was like sunlight.” The statement is true, but the Angel finds it a personal admission all of a sudden and knows Crowley wouldn’t be pleased he shared it. “So I - I tried to shine for him. Encourage him back.”

Bedlam’s expression turns thoughtful and her head tips slowly towards her shoulder until she looks like someone with a fractured neck. “And then what?” she asks in a deceptively mild voice, the sharpnesses of her teeth scratching at her lips.

“I was called away.”

One eyebrow lazily tilts. “PRINCIPALITY OF THE EASTERN GATE - WHAT CALLED YOU AWAY FROM YOUR CHARGE?”

_“Archangels!” _he retorts miserably like the word’s a curse. “I didn’t wish to leave.” His voice has become very small.

“I HOPE IT WAS AN IMPORTANT APPOINTMENT,” Bedlam almost snarls. The trouble with being made of Madness and Succor and Starlight and Shattered Glass is that Bedlam’s sympathy and care will forever and always be to her charges. She fulfills her function with a vengeance: and her ire falls upon those who caused the hurt in the first place. But in the aftermath; those who fail to help or heal, those who walk away, are treated by her with almost as much contempt. It came of being created out of an Angelic war zone: Bedlam was insane, merciful, impatient and not above being a grade-A bitch. “IMPORTANT ENOUGH TO LOSE HIM?”

The Angel blanches to the colour of crisp Victorian writing paper and sways on his feet as the shock seeps slowly through his body.

Bedlam is suddenly beside him, steadying him at one elbow. “It was a question, not a statement,” she mutters, summoning a low-backed pew for them both to sit on. The Angel is trembling and does not appear to be wholly focused on what is currently transpiring. Bedlam sighs. “Just because he’s being a dramatic broken bastard doesn’t mean you get to join in.” The phrase should have held scorn but it sounded more like a teacher telling a child not only were they late, but in the wrong classroom. “Aziraphale?” A slow blink of blank golden eyes, giving him a moment to compose himself. When that isn’t enough she clasps his hand and - “AZIRAPHALE.” The cognitive dissonance that comes from the calm of her touch and the blaze of her voice brings him back to himself. “He is close to lost. He has broken himself...” _Again. Idiot snake, _she adds in the privacy of her own skull.

“Before, you said shattered…”

She makes an annoyed noise like someone trying to steal back a kiss. She has learnt many things about Angels - both Pristine and Fallen - and Sanity and Healing since her creation; but she is supremely bad at explaining the intricacies of such knowledge. Firstly because no one else generally bothers to ask, and secondly because when they do her level of explanation is akin to a top-of-their-field neuro-surgeon’s reply when asked by a three year old, _‘How did you fix mummy?’. _

“I say a lot of things trying to convey understanding. They don’t always work - it’s not my forte. You have two options.” There is something strangely gentle but utterly immovable about the statement. “Leave him here with me.” Her blazing gaze flits between Angel, Demon, and Sanctuary. “Or take my hand.” It’s more than a suggestion and less than a command, but Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate.

There’s a moment of vertigo and he’s standing with Bedlam somewhere else: under a dark sky that frowns balefully across an endless, barren landscape.

“What - I mean, where are we?”

She gives a twitch of a smile. She’s impressed the Angel took her hand first and asked his question after. “Sanctuary - my Dominion. Also Purgatory. Possibly Hell. Possibly even the Void, who knows…”

Aziraphale tries to block out the words as she says them - they don’t get any better. “You - you - where?”

She shakes her head and almost laughs; the gesture makes her look more Human: just an ashen-haired young woman in an old-fashioned gown. “Crowley’s in Sanctuary, as are we. But it’s more a question of where he _thinks _he is - or where’s he’s tried to hide. I’m sure I’ll find him - but are you willing to wait?”

The Angel gives her a sideways and supremely hurt look: he is _not _willing to wait.

“Didn’t think so. In that case…” she seems to consider. “I’m Beatrice to your Dante.” She makes an odd gesture and they look the part, dressed in draped garments the ancient civilizations preferred. Aziraphale is in a white tunic and toga edged in faun and gold. Bedlam is dressed in the Egyptian style, except her linen shift is the same dark blue she always wears and her bone white hair is now in tight ringlets beneath her vulture diadem. She smiles and the star of her True Form bleeds through and for a moment it’s terrifying. “LET’S GO FIND HIM.”

* * *

They have not been walking for long before Bedlam nudges something on the ground with the toe of her sandal: it’s a black snake scale about the size of her palm; it shines with a soft iridescence. _“Hm,” _she observes, annoyed. (Aziraphale wonders if she’s ever not, or if this is simply an emotion Crowley is an expert at wringing from her.) “Silly sod. He’s shattered and scattered himself - spread so thin it’s as if he’s not even here… He’s bloody minded, I’ll give him that.”

The Angel doesn’t like those words but he takes comfort in Bedlam’s matter of fact tone.

Bedlam flicks her hand and grabs at thin air: in her fist are now two linen satchels. “Looks like we’re treasure hunting.” She hands him one of the bags. “Put anything you find in here - I’m not sure it’s a good idea to touch them for too long.”

“It’s only a scale,” Aziraphale says uncertainly.

“No,” she counters, “it’s not. Pick it up.”

The Angel does so.

* * *

They are in the bookshop: it’s late and there has been an amount of alcohol.

“Judgment,” he says heavily and drags his teeth over his lower lip. “You ever considered it? How… how capricious it can be? I mean, the Almighty is pretty clear, but even some of Her choices…”

_“Crowley!” _Aziraphale is deep in his cups too: the admonishment doesn’t hold the bite it ought.

“Just _saying_. Forbidden fruit tree in the middle of the Garden for fucking starters. That’s a temptation in itself…” Something in him goes cold. “Or a test.” He looks at the Angel, his expression both horrified and lost. “Why must everything be _tested?” _There’s a note of anguish there. “She’s perfect - how can Her Creations be less so? Does She not _trust _Herself?” And then, “I swear to Somebody, if you dare utter the word Ineffable…”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“On Earth it’s so…” he waves an arm, “so _arbitrary_. What’s acceptable in one age or one country is morally repugnant in another. It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“Free Will and Knowledge - at least partly your fault I think,” the Angel says mildly.

“Oh, rub it in why don’t you? I don’t mention the bloody Sword.”

“You just did, dear.”

Crowley curls his lip and gives a petty hiss before grabbing the decanter and pouring himself another drink.

* * *

That had been an evening a few weeks ago that they’d shared in the bookshop along with several bottles of Warre’s 1945 Port. “Oh,” the Angel utters softly, uncertain what else to say.

Bedlam looks faintly amused with just the smallest piquant touch of, _‘I told you so…’ _although to her credit she doesn’t voice the statement. “Put it in your satchel,” she tells him. “We’ve a lot more to find.”

Aziraphale looks at the dull twilight landscape of rocks and sand that appears to stretch in all directions without end or beginning. “Ah, how many exactly?”

Bedlam shrugs. “He’d used up every scrap of Occult power he possessed under great strain. He was hurt - not to mention teetering on the precipice of Insanity - and thought himself abandoned.” She directs a rueful smile towards the Angel. “You tell me, Principality: in that situation would he have been Dramatic, or Exceptionally Dramatic?”

Aziraphale blanches. _“Oh dear,” _he utters.

Bedlam snorts. “Thought so. In answer to your earlier question then: A VERY GREAT NUMBER INDEED. We’d best get busy. There are more over there…”

* * *

“You’re drunk, Aziraphale,” the Demon admonishes gently.

_“I most certainly_... may be a little tipsy,” the Angel admits.

Crowley’s lips twitch upwards in an indulgent manner and his head leans forward a fraction. “But tomorrow, we shall both be sober…” _And you’ll still be the most gorgeous fucking thing I’ve ever laid eyes on in all Creation, _he thinks.

The trouble is, despite being a fan of Tom Lehreh _(Be prepared to hold your liquor pretty well - don’t write naughty words on walls if you can’t spell!) _Crowley is even drunker than the Angel - is in fact drunk on the Angel’s presence - he always is. So despite holding his liquor admirably, thank you very much, he didn’t just _think _but in fact _spoke_. At normal and perceivable volume, judging by the Angel’s expression.

“Out loud voice,” he manages in a mortified strangle of sound.

* * *

Aziraphale remembers that evening; how fragile but frenetic Crowley had seemed when he’d realized his admission. It occurs to the Angel how brave one must constantly be to defy the definition of one’s character as reiterated by everyone else. Demons were not meant to feel love. Demons were meant to cause suffering, not minor inconvenience. How many times had Aziraphale accused him of lying, of orchestrating suffering on a grand scale, of being incapable of experiencing the better emotions? And Crowley had always offered a denial in his defense, but had never really become angry or argued about it: as if Angelic prejudice was just one of those things - like the sky being blue. And then, being Crowley, he’d casually proposed to take the Angel out to lunch or done some other act of service or kindness.

And Aziraphale, as ever, hadn’t noticed.

With a sigh he puts the two scales into his satchel and continues the search.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dante And Beatrice are characters in The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri which recounts a journey through Purgatory and the circles of Hell.
> 
> Tom Lehreh is a brilliant American satirist, and the song Crowley is thinking of is 'Be Prepared'.


	15. Delightfully Unraveled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is self contained and contains nothing but smut. So if that's not your thing and you wish to skip it you won't miss any plot =)

There’s a handful of scales, bright and scarlet, glimmering in the sand. Bedlam laughs, seeming to enjoy their impromptu scavenger trail. She kneels down and reaches out a hand to scoop them up before rocking back on her heels at the last moment, hands in the air and fingers curling as if not quite sure what to do with themselves.

Aziraphale has never seen her behave like that. “Is something wrong?”

Her expression says a great deal but none of it is in a language the Angel can read. “I think you should get those,” she says, rising up again. “Come on…”

Aziraphale dutifully picks up the scales…

* * *

He watches with a sort of drugged fascination as Aziraphale’s eyes lock with his whilst the Angel’s hand unerringly tugs up his shirt. The stereotypical response to such behavior is _‘What are you doing?’ _but that’s ridiculous because Crowley can see the certainty in the Angel’s gaze - whatever this is the Angel knows exactly what he’s doing. Another response would be a protestation: _‘We mustn’t…’ _or words of that ilk. But Crowley has known they mustn’t for six millennia and has wanted to anyway with every fiber of his battered soul so would rather chew off his own tongue than say something so idiotically Stoic. Instead he levers himself up on his elbows so if Aziraphale bows his head just a little further he can kiss him. He angles his chin - the perfect invitation - and is momentarily proud of himself when he doesn’t make a little hum of Want as he seeks to bring Aziraphale’s lips against his.

But then the Angel dips his head forward and their mouths meet; lips not quite open but not fully closed either, testing, inviting. Crowley discards dignity for the soft warmth of the Angel’s mouth. The delightful promise of the tongue lying behind the gates of lips and teeth is setting off a strange hissing Need in his head and a spiraling warmth somewhere around his hips. The noise he makes is less a hum and more a groan as he seeks to steal another taste.

Aziraphale licks the sound from across Crowley’s lower lip like a trace of fine wine, and kisses him again with a little smile. Somewhen during that kiss Crowley remembers what Aziraphale’s hand had been diligently doing: unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his jeans. The heat round his hips is moving to between his legs on some sort of collision course. One sane iota of his mind asks him sternly if letting things run on their current track is wise. But he’s a Demon: he understands temptation and how it works best when Want melts into Need, and right now he hopes very soon to be just as utterly Fucked as his Willpower currently is… A crude thought perhaps, but he doesn’t care, he can feel six millennia of desire ganging up on him with a vengeance and (having imagined it a few times in vivid detail over the centuries) his Imagination is compromised and has formed its own partisan faction that’s not on the side of Sanity or Rationality at all.

The Demon favours black boxer shorts of the more expensive and form-fitting persuasion made of fine-knit bamboo thread. The Angel’s hand is in them now. Crowley swears he can feel every whorled pattern of each fingertip that has just run lightly across his erection and is returning to meander there with serious intent. The sensation is like a storm on the rise, sending fizzes of electricity up his lower spine. It’s an exquisite torture being somehow too much and not enough.

Trying not to break the kiss until the last moment, Crowley shifts himself further across Aziraphale’s lap, now lying across it, his back arched in painful ecstasy across the Angel’s thighs, shifting his hips upwards as a low whine of, _“Angel…” _escapes through gritted teeth.

The palm between his legs takes a firm hold of the Demon’s cock, causing him to convulse upwards in delighted shock: Aziraphale takes the opportunity to kiss him again and Crowley doesn’t know whether he’ll melt or explode. There seems to be some biological version of nitroglycerin in warm liquid form soaking into every scrap of him and he wants to fight it even as he wants to drown in the feeling and never come up for air… Surely no self-respecting Demon - no self respecting anything - would be making that quiet mewling sound of Want against another’s lips and stretching their neck up and back like that: a willing sacrifice upon the twin altars of Love and Lust. They are altars built in Eden and he never Imagined he’d be worthy or fortunate to lie prostrate upon them so he cannot bring himself to care - or even think when he realizes Aziraphale has lost patience with his black jeans, waistcoat - well everything in fact - and Miracled them out of the picture.

Crowley would snap his fingers and return the <strike>insult</strike> favour, but all the fingers of either hand want to do is grip against Aziraphale’s back and his calf so he doesn’t writhe off his lap. For a moment Crowley remembers that he was so certain that Hell had invented ‘multitasking’ - it had always seemed so very hideous to him - but he Recants - oh fuck he Recants - because Aziraphale’s fingers are running with gentle pressure up and down the length of his cock, whilst still kissing him, and the Angel’s other hand has skittered up his ribs to run across the shallow dip of his sternum once or twice before brushing to the side until the pad of his thumb can run ruminatively across Crowley’s nipple and pull further incoherent sounds from him.

_“F-firmament,” _Crowley manages in the breathless and reverent way that many Humans say _‘Fuck me’ _in similar situations.

Aziraphale’s feelings are no less tumultuous than Crowley’s: Tenderness and Love and Disbelief and Amazement that this is happening; that Crowley - always so got together even when falling apart - is rendered to this state beneath his hands. It’s supremely gratifying, this ability to imbue so much pleasure in the Demon. He hadn’t expected it, had assumed there’d be some sliver of… indifference or mockery in Crowley’s demeanor: _‘I’m a Demon of Hell - we invented Lust - is this the best you’ve got?’ _Instead his every touch has been met with Love, Desperation, and an Abandon that’s getting increasingly wanton.

Aziraphale realizes what he wants to do most of all in all of Creation is unravel Crowley and spin him into a release so profound he forgets his anxieties, his pains and his pretenses and - if even for only a single moment - is wrapped in an oblivion of Love and Pleasure.

Aziraphale hasn’t had much practice on a personal level, but one can’t help hang around Humanity for six millennia without picking up a trick or two. He briefly considers a more bold or ambitious sexual act, but Crowley appears to be on the brink of discorporation by the steady and slowly increasing rhythm of the Angel’s hand against his cock, never mind anything else. He pauses to run his fingers up and down, to trace around the shaft and brush his thumb back and forth across the tip of the head.

Crowley keens breathlessly like he’s being deprived of oxygen.

It occurs to Aziraphale that Crowley has asked for remarkably few things in their long association. Questions always came easily to the Serpent - but asking for aid? Admitting he wanted something? That was akin to Weakness - and Demons didn’t show that. Only at the Apocalypse had the Demon been desperate enough to ask for a single thing: that Aziraphale leave with him. And the Angel had turned him down - twice. If Crowley can’t form words for how much he wants this when the Need is shivering in ever line of him, then Aziraphale isn’t going to be so much of a bastard as to make him.

“I love you,” he murmurs between kisses. “So much… Let go,” he whispers. “I’ll catch you.” His hands have ceased to explore and returned to the more serious business they’d discarded: running up and down the length of Crowley’s shaft in a rhythm that’s gaining momentum in response to the arch of Crowley’s spine which is becoming more pronounced by the second.

The Demon’s breathing is nothing but a stutter: he’s trying to push himself against Aziraphale’s hands, push himself closer to the Angel’s mouth despite the fact that shudders like seismic tremors periodically run through him and confuse his hips. The tremors intensify: there’s some ideological cold-war raging in the Demon’s body whereby he Wants this - Needs this - but something in his soul refuses to bow to it.

The Angel decides Crowley always did think too much: this is one situation where questions are not warranted. A minute later when he’s mostly certain Crowley’s corporeal form is manifesting extra vertebrae rather than finally surrender to orgasm, the Angel increases the pressure by the smallest amount and bows his head over Crowley: not to find the Demon’s lips but the thrown back column of his throat. He nips kisses downwards, biting small bruises and soothing them with the tip of his tongue…

Crowley can’t breathe and it’s the most beautiful sensation he’s ever known and then there’s a kiss on his collarbone and the Angel’s lips dip down further to muss across his right nipple, pressing the warmth of lips and tongue to the sensitive skin, and - _Oh Firmament…_

The nitroglycerin in Crowley’s bloodstream - in his everything - turns white hot, and for the longest time he can’t tell if he’s burning or drowning and doesn’t care because he feels utterly at Peace for the first time in six millennia. It seems like centuries later when the blazing incandescence of that sensation has faded to a warm, encompassing glow, and he’s able to open his eyes.

Aziraphale is smiling at him and idly running his fingers through the Demon’s hair. “Hello, dearest,” he murmurs. His voice is infinitely kind, but there’s a fault line, a fear. “Are, are you alright my dear?” He can’t quite seem to get further words out, not with the Demon looking up at him like that. Crowley obfuscates: he’s a Serpent at heart and his Human form is missing the eyes scales that snakes have - it’s why he wears his glasses. That and he has a complex relationship with both Humans and his reptilian eyes - his manifest Fallen Nature - and thinks it best to cover them up. It took Aziraphale a millennia to realize it wasn’t only Humanity the Serpent coiled away from under those ridiculous obsidian lenses. But now the Serpent is looking up at him with a curious mix of wonder and tenderness, tinged at the edges with barely sated Lust.

“Are you?” he asks hoarsely, as if he’s enquiring about the weather but whatever the answer is it might just kill him.

Aziraphale reaches for one of his hands. “Yes my dear.”

Crowley does, if possible, wish to impart the deliciously wracked feeling of being pulled taught to breaking point under sexual attention and knowing you’re a moment away from shattering into ecstasy, because there is nothing to match it in all Creation. He can describe the Fall (won’t, thanks all the same, but he could) but he can’t yet describe what he’s just felt. He only knows he wants - more than anything - for the Angel to feel it too. Crowley swallows, but his voice is husky with desire. “I wanna make you feel like that…”

* * *

Aziraphale can feel his cheeks blush pink at the intensity of emotion in the memory. It was the first time either of them had done more than kiss and it had astounded him how much pleasure could be gifted so easily and how it made his heart soar and ache to do so.

He hastily drops the scales into his bag, clears his throat and picks up the two that his first handful missed…


	16. Let Them Eat Cake

They are in the Cloister garden in Sanctuary underneath the willow tree. Crowley is wearing a black linen shift and is stretched out upon the grass, propped up on one elbow, the corkscrew waves of his hair falling over his left shoulder. His skin is still too pale and his face too thin, but his eyes are bright.

Aziraphale is eating a scone. He dabs a napkin to his lips, chasing away imaginary crumbs. “There’s a young lady who looks in on you…”

Crowley looks up sharply. _“What?”_

“She glances in whenever she passes.”

He frowns. “What young lady?”

“I haven’t enquired. She has hair so black it’s almost blue and eyes like pearls - does that help?”

The Demon chokes on his tea.

“Do you know her? We should invite her to join us…”

Crowley continues to cough pretending he’s inhaled more liquid than he has and one hand clutches his breastbone and tries to stop his heart doing anything stupid. Now he remembers. _Ma’at. _She was in the Darkness. That’s where he went - that’s who he pulled out. The cough sounds forced now because he has such a mixed up feeling surging inside him - too much elation and too much misery and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He thinks he wants to cry and that would just be embarrassing.

“But I’d rather keep these picnics to ourselves,” the Angel is saying. “Is that selfish of me? There’s always tea, however - high tea is traditional for guests…”

Crowley finds himself nodding. “Tea. High. Great. Yeah…”

* * *

The sky is the colour of a bruise; glowering greys and purples, but it does make the scales easier to spot in the dust. They sit like smooth pieces of jet amidst the dirt. Aziraphale picks up another, wiping it on his toga. It pains him to think of their usual scintillating sheen being muddied…

* * *

There is a man, skinny, lanky, tight clad in black. He holds a bag of pastries in one hand. "What is thiss?" he demands stringently, dropping them on the table at the back of the bookshop.

"Unless someone has engaged in an egregious breach of ‘truth in advertising’, and I think we agreed that advertising is pretty exclusively _your _field, I would hazard a wild, out of the blue guess, as pastries." People think Aziraphale doesn’t indulge in sarcasm: he does, but only infrequently, preferring to save it up for when the mood takes him. He looks over the top of the book he’s been reading; the latest copy of something written by an American purporting to reveal how numerology and the Bible could foretell the future. (He’s been using a series of bookmarks to highlight the more blatant errors.) The book itself is very shiny with the words _‘Truth’ _and_‘Secrets’ _prominently splashed across the dust jacket and a picture of a foreboding, bearded gentleman on the back.

Crowley looks nauseously at the book and gives a little hiss of annoyance: the annoyance is vague and poorly directed, but then some days so is he.

"I must say that this chap is very good at foretelling the past. I know what you’re thinking, but you’d be surprised: the art of Hindsightology isn’t always a base skill for these authors."

He perches on one arm of the battered sofa and then twists sideways to fall onto the cushions, his legs crooked over the armrest.

“Oh, _really _dear boy…”

Crowley flings the back of one of his hands against his forehead in an attitude of World-weary melancholia. “Aziraphale, why do you insist on reading that rubbish?”

"Because it is prophecy, of a sort, and I have to keep my collection up to date.” He marks his place and closes the book in favour of attending to tea. “This - well, whilst I must admit the word ‘charlatan’ springs rather urgently to mind - was on the New York Times bestseller list for three months."

“It was _what?” _he demands, horrified: _he _certainly hadn’t put it there and now rather wishes he had. “Yeah, ‘cos that’s a well known marker of veracity!”

Aziraphale stops in mid pour of the teapot and looks at Crowley with a raised eyebrow. “Popularity is not indicative of truth, indeed - if only more people saw it that way. Milk, I assume, with your usual startling number of sugar lumps?" He delicately pushes the porcelain teacup across the table towards the Demon.

“I don’t like sugar,” Crowley bites back, less a complaint, more a challenge.

"Ah. I just assumed that as it fell under the heading of vice nowadays, that you would embrace it. No matter…" He reaches past the teapot warmer and retrieves another cup. The service itself is eighteenth century original Ming porcelain and it’s a matter of some sadness to him that he only possesses four of the original cups and three saucers.

Crowley watches him and registers his displeasure and isn’t certain who or what it might be for. He’d come here in a bad mood in the hopes of being soothed out of it, only to find Aziraphale arch and prickly. “There can be sugar,” he amends with feigned indifference. He pulls himself up into a sitting position, his boots on the floor where they belong. A twitch of a smile: “Bitch the pot,” he instructs - old familiar slang from more than a century ago.

"Really?" Aziraphale notes with amusement and fond disapproval of Crowley’s language. With a teaspoon that he has somehow acquired in his hand, he gestures at the pastry bag. "So, what hath so offended thee about that collection of cakes and sweetmeats?"

"Things change," he says unhappily. "But for today, we still have Patisserie Valerie pastries."

"Indeed, I rather hope that we have better pastries than we have been used to. I was disappointed when they started using margarine instead of butter in some of their recipes. Rather spoilt the point of a dainty cake - if it’s not decadent, rich and with that faint top-note taste of guilt and remorse, then whatever is the point?"

He laughs. "Guilt and remorse? Not meant to be your purview, angel..."

The Angel in question stops and seriously considers the matter. “I have found in the past that they rather tend to belong to those who have set themselves a high moral standard and failed to reach it rather than those who should beg Heaven for forgiveness.”

Crowley shakes his head. "I haven’t had caffeine yet, let alone alcohol. _Bit early for this shit," _he mutters. There’s a hairline fracture in his nonchalance: he certainly has no intention of begging Heaven for anything.

"Are you sure, dear boy? The last time I saw you looking this put out, you had been experimenting with communion wine and comparing its effects with Trappist beer…"

He pulls a face, not appreciating the Angel’s humour. "You do know that would be like a sommelier taste-testing bleach?” Sanctified wine is poison to Demons; Crowley has no idea what effects Trappist beer has but he isn’t in a hurry to find out.

“So what has left you such a little ray of sunshine this morning?” Aziraphale enquires.

He wants to say, _‘Patisserie Valerie went bust. I’ve spent the last three days straight baling out a pastry shop - who _does _that? Not to mention now I’ll have to leave the Director a strongly worded note on the use of butter vs margarine in their cakes’ _but that will A) sully his reputation and B) alert the Angel to what he’s done and for reasons he can’t articulate (but probably to do with faint embarrassment) he doesn’t want Aziraphale to know. “Didn’t sssleep,” he says instead because that’s true.

"Probably for the good, wouldn’t want you missing out on another Industrial Revolution..." Aziraphale, being an Angel, does not technically hold grudges and has forgiven him for abandoning the Agreement during the 19thcentury. Technically.

Crowley tips his head very slowly to the side to pin a superior look upon the Angel from behind his glasses. "The Industrial Revolution! Your lot give you a medal for that?"

Aziraphale shudders delicately and then bestows one of his beneficent and oh-so-irritating smiles on Crowley. "And so did yours. But I at least knew what a mess Humanity was making - as part of the Ineffable Plan, no doubt.” He can’t help his conditioned reflex of raising his eyes to the ceiling in case anyone Upstairs is listening in.

Crowley looks queasy. "I didn’t get _commended _for the Industrial Revolution! Did I? I was sleeping! Ah _shit_," he complains.

"Ah indeed. I believe they were very pleased by the influx of broken souls and the general increase in Human misery; whilst I was commended for the decrease in mortality and the rise in aspirations amongst people to do better, especially for their children." Aziraphale stopped to sip his tea. "Funny old World at times, eh?"

Crowley makes a pained face and doesn’t deign to comment. He kicks his legs out and levers himself up with a grunt, propelling himself towards the table and claiming his tea (without sugar) before sighing and sitting not on the sofa but the floor up against it - no place further to sink that way. He feels unaccountably tired and still out of sorts: his thoughts are straying to the safe in his flat that once contained a thermos of Holy Water but now only holds a vintage 1950s Paddington Bear doll.

"There, there," Aziraphale lets the faintest note of concern tinge his voice: not enough to make the Demon baulk, but enough to demonstrate he cares. He brings his tea and sits on the sofa, his knees brushing Crowley’s shoulder. "You shouldn’t take it so hard that we’re artisans in an age of mass production. We have saved the World and, if it will just _stay _saved, then that is an issue for after tea. Meanwhile, there are some rather gloriously talented singers appearing at Cadogan Hall, the Regents Park open-air theatre has a new production of Evita. Oh, and there’s a new oyster bar opened in Soho. There is plenty to celebrate, you know?"

It takes Crowley some moments to process all of that. He drinks his tea: a very fine Orange Tippy Peko. _“Saved the World, got a fucking medal for the Industrial Revolution - as you do...” _he mutters and then manages to pay attention to current events. "Evita?" he queries, his tone failing to let on whether he thinks that’s a fine or a hideous idea. Another mouthful of tea, and, "Petronius lied. Oysters taste like sea snot, angel." His expression is half grimace and half smile: he isn’t a fan of oysters but he knows saying so will ruffle Aziraphale’s feathers.

A faint shudder goes through the Angel as he swallows the accusation of _‘Philistine’_. He rises from his chair, delicately brushing non-existent crumpet crumbs from his waistcoat. "Perhaps you have just not yet met the right _chef de partie,” _he decides generously. “Upwards and onwards - buck up my dear - mayhap a date with destiny awaits."

"Destiny?" he hisses, downing the rest of his tea and setting the cup and saucer carefully back on the table. "Is that part of the Written Plan or the Ineffable one? Whatever. Never mind," he grumbles, walking towards the door of the bookshop, a maelstrom of jagged feelings, annoyance and swagger.

It had been a mistake to visit the bookshop, he thinks. He shouldn’t rely on Aziraphale to salvage his mood, even if he had just tirelessly been moving Heaven and Earth (metaphorically) and a substantial sum of money (literally) in the name of a pastry shop that had sunk in the Angel’s estimation without him noticing. _See where good deeds get you? - Idiot. _Besides, except for the past three days he’s practically been living at the bookshop the last few months: the Angel’s probably sick of him. Has things to do, doesn’t need a Demon hanging around, getting underfoot and criticizing how he makes tea and bitching about oysters...

By the time he opens the door setting the bell jangling, Crowley’s mood, which had been leaden already, has taken a nose-dive towards the black.

The Angel has found over the millennia that it’s best to ignore Crowley’s sour combativeness; or at least counter it with kindness. It’s a lesson he’s been slow in applying this morning, he realises. Aziraphale gives the bookshop a hurried once over to check no customers have slipped in, and then scurries to catch up with the Demon on the front steps.

Crowley pauses, seeming genuinely surprised to see him at his shoulder.

“With you in a moment,” the Angel reassures him as he double locks the door behind them. When all is secure he drops the keys in his pocket and links his left arm comfortably with the Demon’s right. “You’re quite correct you know,” he offers as if it has been the topic of conversation all along, “it’s far too lovely a day to be locked up in the bookshop. A spot of perambulation, perhaps? Or did you have somewhere specific in mind? And besides that dear boy, you must tell me what you’ve been up to - it feels as if I haven’t seen you in an age!”

The faintest hint of colour - that most certainly is _not _a blush - tints the Demon’s cheeks.

“But of course, I suppose I can’t expect to monopolise all your time. How are the houseplants, by the way?”

As Aziraphale continues to chatter, the Demon eases into his presence and feels something tight in his soul unwind, scales and feathers duly smoothed. He scowls at any passer-by who glances their way, but when he looks at his angel, his lips cant in a little smile that proclaims, _‘This is good… thiss iss Home.’_


	17. The Incident

Bedlam gathers up a scattering of scales and deposits them in her satchel as quickly as she can. Damn the Serpent and his drama. She can feel his memories pressing in. She doesn’t want them - isn’t interested in them. She grimaces, her eyes blazing. “_Stupid _snake,” she growls at the sky.

* * *

The rain is a light London drizzle, which usually the Demon would approve of as it annoys people by being both wet and utterly ineffectual in watering the garden. But today he’s glaring at the sky as if it’s personally offended him - which in one particular way it has. Crowley loathes rainbows: they tend to bring him out in fits of sarcasm. “Oh _look _a colourful non-slaughter promise in the sky - how _blessed _we are!” He makes a little gagging noise.

Aziraphale winces, unlocks the bookshop, and murmurs, “Ineffable.”

Crowley glowers and mutters, “I need a sodding drink...”

"You do know that getting drunk has never solved anything?" the Angel asks as he hangs up his coat, puts on his cardigan and moves to the back of the shop, one sulking Demon in tow.

"Where have _you _been?" he asks acerbically. Crowley always felt getting drunk solved a lot of things: top of the list is his ability to perceive the horrors of reality - it solved that marvellously. He uncorks a bottle of Nuit-Saint-Georges as the Angel fetches glasses.

"Oh, just out and about." Aziraphale looks a bit flustered and busies himself with pulling the cork off of the corkscrew as Crowley pours them each a glass.

Crowley gives him a long look, confused, and then decides to be wicked because, well - Demon. "I’m sorry, _where _have you been?"

"Nowhere. Everywhere! Well, I mean I have been somewhere, obviously, but no, nowhere important. Why would I be anywhere important? This is _very _nice wine..."

He flings himself dramatically down on the sofa. "Have you been joining discrete Gentlemen’s Clubs again?"

The Angel blushes. "That was all just jolly romps and Gavottes. Completely misconstrued, although I do rather miss a dance that I can understand…"

_"Jolly romps and Gavottes?!" _Crowley mouths silently into his wine glass unsure quite where to put that information. A swallow of wine. "What’ve you been up to recently anyway? Haven’t seen you all week." He sounds petulant because he is.

"Oh, nothing! Just catching up on my correspondence, that sort of thing. Perfectly normal stuff for a perfectly normal bookseller. Just... _things_..."

Crowley sighs theatrically, puts down his wine glass and slides lower on the sofa so he can sprawl in annoyance. "For Somebody’s sake, angel! Stop being all mysterious - you’re rubbish at it for a start."

"Oh, am I?" Aziraphale looks visibly deflated. "I thought that I was getting quite good at it..." He sits down, perched rather awkwardly at the front of his chair and places his hands on his knees, then reconsiders and picks up his wine glass so he can drink as he talks. "So, well, funny really..." He gives a horrible _‘not really funny at all’ _laugh that is almost a whinny. "I was in the shop wondering what was happening, you know, _Upstairs_,” he makes a little gesture, pointing as he says it, “when, of a sudden, there was a, well, Divine presence. Jolly impressive; vast Heavenly aura, rose petals and incense, the full works..."

It’s impossible to read Crowley’s expression behind his sunglasses but his lips are pressed tightly together and he either looks queasy or panicked.

"So, with the gentle strum of a Heavenly Choir providing quite charming harmonies, the presence of the Metatron himself blessed me with an appearance."

It’s hard to get a fix on Aziraphale’s expression but Crowley last saw something like that in 1967 in Dresden when a ballerina was explaining to him very clearly and precisely the many advantages of the East German system at speed so as not to inconvenience the hidden Stasi operative by causing them to file a report or shoot her in the head. "_Ngk_," says Crowley and makes a grab for his wine like a 1920s adventurer in the movies trying to grab a vine when encountering unexpected quicksand. _Meddling bastards, _he thinks miserably. _What happened to leaving us alone?_

"So, it seems that certain questions have been raised as to how the Incident That Never Happened…”

“Not-pocalypse. Notocalypse. Apocanot? Armageddon’t. Armagedd_off?” _

“_Incident _was handled and how Head Office reacted to my part in it. It would seem they’re now of the opinion they may have acted rashly and would like to make it up to me - by way of apology as it were. They _now _feel that, perhaps, as a Principality with the most hands-on experience of Earth, I should be in a position of consultant so I can pass on my wisdom of Earthly Nuances."

_Smug_, that is the word trying to force its way into Crowley’s head: Aziraphale was in terrible danger of looking smug and pleased with himself. Crowley blinks, although it’s a mute point because of the sunglasses. "Wait, hang on a minute I don’t get it - are you telling me you got _promoted_?"

"Of course,” the Angel continues blithely, “it would involve a move to a more senior position, with staff and the suchlike, but I need not worry as apparently Gabriel has been appointed to take my place as the angel-in-residence, the Divine Guardian, the Holy Steersman of this Precious Orb…”

Crowley pulls off his glasses. "_What_?" he says in a strangely leaden voice.

Aziraphale looks earnestly at Crowley. "So, dear boy, are you pleased for me?"

He swallows very carefully and it seems to cost him a lot to find his voice again. "Pleased," he mumbles looking nauseous. "Yeah..." He drains his wine in one long swallow and fills his glass again almost to the brim. Then he drains that. He puts down the glass and carefully puts his sunglasses back on.

Aziraphale maintains his solemn tone for as long as he can. "Of course, there will be a few changes, but it will all be part of the Divine Plan..." At this point, the mischievous smile finally storms the facade and breaks out across his face. "Oh, I had you! I really had you that time..."

Crowley turns to face him, expression as blank as the black of his sunglasses. He gets unsteadily to his feet before pointing a finger at the Angel. "You," he says imperiously, "are an _unspeakable _bastard. I’m gonna sleep for a fucking decade - it’ll serve you right."

"Oh, but oh..." Aziraphale is genuinely upset, his hands make little fluttery gestures. "Sorry, but you asked what happened. I just never said that I _accepted _the offer. I explained to the Metatron that, as he could not say if this was the Divine Plan, it would be best not to disturb matters that were appointed by the Almighty. And of course I still have a few loose ends to tidy up here which will keep me busy for, oh, at least six thousand years or so." He beams at his own cleverness.

Crowley sways and drops heavily back onto the sofa muttering something very quietly and no doubt invective in Enochian.

The Angel pours himself a glass of wine. "To loose ends," he smiles and toasts Crowley.

Crowley looks at his empty glass like its some sort of sharply ironic metaphor he doesn’t want to acknowledge right now, before grabbing the bottle and toasting with that.

Aziraphale takes a demure swallow of wine, then stops and an expression that, if it had not been on an Angel, would have been described as glee flashes across his face. "And Gabriel knows that he was almost posted here; the only reason he’s still in Heaven is because I turned the offer down. I do so hope he doesn’t find that... vexing."

Crowley’s trying to regain his equilibrium but it’s hard because for a few minutes he’d truly thought he’d lost Aziraphale - again. "Gabriel’s a wanker," he mutters automatically.

* * *

Aziraphale looks at the scale in his hand remorsefully. He had no idea he’d upset Crowley that badly with his teasing - and of course the Demon had never mentioned it… He puts it carefully in his satchel.


	18. Playing With Fyre

There are secondary scales shining softly in the gloom: smaller but multiple and no less significant. The Angel hesitates before picking them up: he’s getting a feel for the memories they represent, and the emotion emanating under his wavering palm is not a good one.

* * *

It’s late - past Armageddon, let alone past bedtime - and the Demon is bone weary with what feels like the beginning of a migraine the size of a rail spike trying to drive itself through his head. His jacket’s torn and singed, he’s covered in soot and ash and smells of burnt-out car. All he wants to do is crawl into bed (and he will crawl at this point: he’s stood before Heaven and Hell and Satan and is too damn tired to stand before anything else. Except Aziraphale apparently, because the Angel is talking and Crowley is standing in the living room of his Mayfair flat, listening to him and trying not to sway.)

_“‘Playing with fyre’_\- that must be Hellfire, don’t you see?” the Angel’s saying with some animation.

“What? Why?” He hopes his tongue doesn’t sound as leaden as it feels in his mouth.

“Crosswords, Crowley, I’ve had a lot of practice - do keep up - it’s obvious really. Heaven and Hell will both demand their pound of flesh for what we did; we made them look ridiculous for a start and I’m not sure there’s a greater crime in their sight than that. So it will be trial or punishment. Who other than moths might be said - in light of our recent exploits - to _‘play with fire?’”_

“Mnghs?” Crowley says, and he can’t even remember what word he’d meant it to be when it started in his throat.

“Angels! _Hellfire _will be the method of my execution should I be found guilty.” Aziraphale sounds unaccountably pleased about it.

“Hellfire’ss guilty,” he agrees vaguely, taking a deep breath to try to steady himself. The floor is starting to look exceptionally comfortable… “Right.”

“It’s a coin palm, Crowley!” the Principality continues with glee. “Don’t you see? It’s the simplest trick in the book - classic misdirection. If you look and behave as _me _when taken to Heaven for trial, we win either way. Either I - that's to say you-as-me - we’re vindicated and allowed to return, or if we’re executed then the Hellfire won’t harm you.” His eyes are wide and shining with excitement, a sort of meticulous and bookish glee he usually only gets from Agatha Christie novels. “Imaging what they’d make of that, dear boy! No Angel has ever withstood Hellfire. Oh, I shouldn’t, but - imagine how they’d panic!”

“N’yall right,” the Demon slurs, past caring. He defied Satan today. Sure: he’ll go to Heaven in Aziraphale’s place, shower in Hellfire, whatever. Maybe he’ll steal away to write a few rude memos on Head Office stationary whilst he’s at it…

“I, of course, will take on your appearance and place when the Hierarchy of Hell recall you…”

Crowley’s struggle not to pass out on his feet abruptly electrifies into a rigid shudder, like a tuning fork that’s been struck and now must suffer the consequences. He practically vibrates. _“No.” _The word is dragged between his teeth to fall like a tombstone.

“Why ever not?”

_“No,” _Crowley repeats in exactly the same tone, an echo to his own anguish.

Aziraphale looks bemused, still certain of his analysis and unable to work out why Crowley has agreed to one side of the plan and is now refusing the other. “It’s perfectly simple - everything is in balance. Heaven employs Hellfire, and Hell uses Holy Water.”

The tuning fork that has been struck in Crowley’s emotions turns to vibrate in a different and stronger direction. Behind his glasses, the edge of one of his eyes begins to tic as the rail-spike-migraine pushes further into his skull. “It’s not perfectly simple - Hell _isn’t. _Heaven is. Hell is, isss…” he struggles to finish the sentence even when he doesn’t want to and isn’t sure how. The Angel has advanced on him and it isn’t helping his cognitive faculties. He’d step back but he doesn’t trust himself not to trip over his own boots. “Demons are… there are... there are a thousand torments in Hell,” he manages. “But they’re not imaginative.” The spike of agony in his head has worked its way through his brain and the tip of it is resting uncomfortably behind his right eyeball. He wonders dully if the spike pushes forward any further whether his eye might fall out. _Wouldn’t that just be fucking typical? _he thinks, his contemplations taking on a fever edge as the pain and exhaustion churn together. _After the day I’ve had, to top it all off, bloody eyeball on the carpet… Does aqueous humour stain?_

“Agnes Nutter is akin to the World’s most fiendish cryptic crossword setter. Thankfully, I had all of history as a key when I looked over her prophecies. They were indeed startlingly nice and accurate, but I do understand how so many of them were misinterpreted… She has an unlikely outlook,” the Angel muses.

“Yeah, still no to this bollocks,” Crowley tells him grimly. “I’ll cover Heaven this once, fine! But fuck it, I’ll do both - my treat. I mean it - you - I - uh - look, no one wants to go to Hell this time of year if they can help it - Annual Reports, Office Reshuffle and all that… I’ll go sort both things out. You can drink tea and petit fours - eat petit tea - fives - _thing,” _he ends with some frustration, rubbing the heel of his thumb against his forehead and trying desperately not to scowl as that just made the pain worse.

Aziraphale looks at him curiously. “Are you being purposefully obtuse, dear boy? If Heaven employs the use of Hellfire, they will have to outsource it from Hell. This will mean they owe Hell a favour; a position they will naturally find unbearable. They will seek to rid themselves of the obligation a swiftly as possible. Michael has a very tidy and expedient turn of thought, no doubt she will suggest an exchange: a gift of Holy Water as the means of your demise, should they find you guilty. Correct me if I’m wrong, dearest,” he concludes with long-suffering patience, “but unless you’re more inimitable than either of us believe, you are _not _immune to the effects of Holy Water.”

“You’re not going to Hell,” Crowley growls stubbornly. It’s not that he doesn’t believe Aziraphale - he does - about Heaven at least. He can still remember Heaven, back when it had been the Silver City, before the Fall, before it turned Corporate. Heaven has always been straightforward and employed a puritanical simplicity it its morals, its aesthetic, and its outlook.

Hell is nothing like that. Hell is lakes of sulphur and molten glass. Hell is Ammit, Devouress of the Pit. Hell is the Garden of Earthly Delights. Hell is other people. Hell is a room with a single chair in it. Hell is scourges and Pears of Anguish and Judas Cradles and hot pokers. Hell is the fury of a woman scorned. Hell is an endless but inedible feast because the cutlery is of an inconvenient length. Hell is all of those things - a bubbling boiling blaspheming mess of pain and chaos and hatred and paperwork… There’s no way to know whether they’ll use Holy Water even if Heaven offers it. They might decide pouring scorpions down his throat and sewing his mouth shut is more fun. Or stringing him up by his entrails and hanging him head down in a cesspit for the next millennia. Or seeing how long it takes to render him to mush and bone fragments using nothing but a cheese grater - starting at his feet, of course…

Hell didn’t have much imagination, but it did have vindictiveness, a low-grade cunning, and an unsurpassed knowledge of anatomy.

“You don’t know they’ll use Holy Water - you _can’t _know.”

“Sequential or Holmsian Logic, dear boy,” Aziraphale corrects brightly. “It really is very simple.”

The thought of his angel cheerfully walking into Hell with such blasted certainty, only to be met by Hastur, a torture rack, an imp with a bucket and a large selection of paring knives, makes a wave of intense nausea crash through the Demon. He struggles not to gag. “Drop it, Aziraphale,” he snaps, staggering away and pulling his sunglasses off with one hand so he can cover his eyes with the other because Somebody help him he’s certain at least one of the bloody things is going to explode and he’ll have to get the carpet cleaned on top of going to Heaven and Hell and facing Hastur…

Crowley fumbles his sunglasses and leans crookedly against the doorway; from the back he looks like he might be drunk, from the front his face looks wan and pinched as, breathing ragged, his head slowly bows and his shoulders sag into a slump that is the beginning of a slow descent that can only end up on the floor.

Aziraphale is at his side, one hand on his arm, the other reaching across to cup his cheek and the edge of his jaw.

The Demon shivers and is immensely grateful for the support of the wall at his back.

“Look at the state of you, dear boy,” he says with fond reproof. “Let’s get you to bed. We can discuss things in the morning.”

Crowley tries to argue and almost drops: he can either speak or remain upright, but not both. Holding a conversation from the lowly position of the floor doesn’t appeal so he stays silent as the Angel steers him towards the bedroom.

On some level it registers that Aziraphale has Miraceled away the soot and the smoke-stained clothes that clad him and has replaced them with a set of black silk pyjamas. And then he’s lying in bed, and nothing but relief registers after that in the brief moments before sleep claims him.

* * *

Aziraphale remembers how haggard Crowley had looked in the morning as he listened to the Angel’s repetition of reasons and arguments from the night before. How he’d sprawled on the sofa in stony silence as Aziraphale meticulously worked through every step of his logic. And finally how he’d just shaken his head - _no._

Aziraphale had deployed a certain amount of pettiness at that point: he’d told Crowley in his best no-nonsense voice that if Crowley would not allow him to go to Hell, then he certainly would not allow the Demon to attend to any Heavenly tribulations in his place.

Crowley’s jaw had tightened and his lips twitched with the effort of suppressing whatever it was in his mind to say. After a long and fraught silence, he’d finally swallowed and said, “Fine,” in an empty voice.

The Angel put the scales in his bag; it’s beginning to occur to him quite how much Crowley had been willing to risk of himself in keeping Aziraphale out of harm’s way. It’s a humbling and deeply discomforting revelation.

With a sigh he scoops up the rest of the scales…


	19. Bandstands And Bears

They were standing at opposite sides of the bandstand; or rather, Aziraphale is staunchly guarding his corner whilst Crowley fumes and paces. Although Crowley’s last comment has drawn him forward like an indignant swan. “Then what? We _eliminate _him?”

Crowley gives an uncomfortable shrug. “_Someone _does, I’m not personally up for killing kids.”

“You’re the _Demon_\- I’m the nice one! I don’t have to kill children!”

“Uh-uh-uh,” Crowley stutters because the hypocrisy in that short statement is more than can be borne. He pokes a ‘how dare you’ finger towards the Angel.

“If _you _kill him then the World gets a reprieve,” the Angel bats back shamelessly with an equally pointed finger. “And Heaven does not have blood on its hands.”

The Demon looks first hurt and then vicious. “Oh - no _blood _on your hands?” The tone of his voice brings sharply to mind Egypt, Noah, Sodom and Gomorrah, Golgotha, all of it. “That’s a bit holier than thou, isn’t it?”

“Well I am - a great deal holier than thou! That’s the whole point.” He regrets it as soon as he says it.

Crowley leans closer. “You should kill the boy yourself,” he suggests harshly. _“Holi-ly.”_

“I am not _killing _anybody!” Aziraphale protests, unhappy that the situation seems to have slipped from his control and that his friend is so angry.

“This is ridiculous. _You _are ridiculous,” Crowley bites. “I don’t even know why I’m still talking to you.”

“Well frankly neither do I!”

“Enough, I’m leaving,” he says stalking away.

“You can’t _leave _Crowley,” the Angel calls, broken. “There isn’t anywhere to go.”

He spins and opens his arms wide. “It’s a big Universe. Even if all this ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we can go off together.” There it is, his heart and head offered up once more on a platter.

“Go off together?” the Angel echoes with hope and fear. “Wh..? Listen to yourself,” he schools.

“How long have we been friends?” the Demon presses. “Six thousand years.” Again he opens his arms as if that will illustrate the scope of his feelings.

“Friends? We’re not _friends_,” Aziraphale says desperately. “We are an _Angel _and a _Demon_. We have nothing whatsoever in common. I don’t even like you!” he adds as a postscript.

That leaves a mark: he understands Aziraphale is smarting right now but he’s not without his own emotional torment. “You _do_,” he snarls back in refutation.

“Even if I did know where the Antichrist was - I wouldn’t tell _you_\- we’re on opposite sides.”

That’s too much to hear. Crowley advances and it’s not a saunter, it’s a predator’s rush before a strike. “We’re on _our _side,” he hisses because he still believes that to be true.

“There is no ‘our side’ Crowley!” Aziraphale snaps. “Not any more. It’s _over_.”

Demons don’t display weakness, or pain if they can possibly help it. There is a very long pause. “Right,” he says darkly with a shrug. “Well then…” He rolls his shoulders and tries to look like he doesn’t care. “Eh. Have a nice Doomsday.” He walks away from the bandstand. _“I’ll see you in Hell,” _Crowley adds acerbically under his breath. _“And I won’t even stop to say hi...” _He wasn’t sure, all in all why Humans had a tendency to spit ‘see you in Hell’. Because surely that was just making a dinner date in a hostile location with someone you didn’t like? Still despite his anger and pissy words, he knows he’ll do anything to ensure he never sees the Angel in Hell.

* * *

Aziraphale falters, staggers, and stands again. There’s too much hurt in that memory that he wasn’t cognizant of as it happened. His emotions had been in tumult but he hadn’t understood quite how turbulent Crowley’s had been. There’s a smaller sprinkling of scales, scarlet and close by and the Angel grabs them, eager for anything to chase the regret away.

* * *

She’s Los Angeles born and breed with all that _that _entails, thirty-eight, verging on anorexic, and wearing a tight suit, a push-up bra, heels, and very red lipstick. It all came with the job.

“So you can see that the addition of a baseball cap to the bear’s wardrobe has ensured that he will appeal to the vital youth sector along with the urban population - the street dancing and rapping,” she adds in case the questionable and modern meaning of ‘urban’ for ‘African American’ has been misconstrued.

“I can tell you that we have already had interest from major sports retailers in product placement and ‘owning’ the Paddington brand. I cannot say who just yet,” she smiles like a shark bringing treats, “but I will let that information ‘swoosh’ out later. Further, switching out the duffle coat for a sports shirt also provides major marketing opportunities. I should imagine the Chicago Bears, the Memphis Grizzlies or the Boston Bruins, just to name three off the top of my head, will be biting our hands off in their eagerness to be a part of our franchise.” The executive producer sits back with a smile on her face, confident that she’s made the perfect pitch to the movers and shakers of the film industry before her.

The voice that speaks up from the corner of the room is unexpected and oddly sibilant - not to mention menacing. _“Gen-tle-men, _and ladiess, of coursse…” Nobody had known whom the figure insolently slouched in the armchair at the back was but, this being Hollywood, nobody wanted to ask in case he was someone famous or important (and these are usually the same thing in California). He’d appeared at some point during the meeting and, if none of them could quite remember at which point, their egos were never going to admit it.

He stands up and slouches liquidly to the head of the table before resting his knuckles on the incredibly expensive piece of black, Italian marble. He glances around and a predatory snarl flickers around the edges of his face, as if it’s not quite decided whether it’s needed or not but thought that it might try out the place for size. The effect is like waiting to be struck by lightning.

_“No.” _

It’s only a single word, but it’s dropped like a grenade into the silence that has descended on the room. These people are used to assessing everyone as predators or prey and are belatedly getting the feeling akin to a pack of jackals when a T-Rex walks into their all-of-a-sudden too small cave. 

One of the financiers swallows dryly, but feels, gamely, he has to fill the space. “N-No, what?”

That snarl has measured the living space, decided it could fit the divan and the television in and has now not only rented the lease but taken up permanent residence. “No to almosst everything in this ssteaming pile of sshit that you care to call a pitch.” Although the script on the table doesn’t actually burst into flame, it certainly crisps alarmingly at the corners. “No to it being set in New York. No to it ‘being re-imagined for a young generation’. No to it starring Adam Sandler. No to any parts being played by a flash-in-the-pan singer or someone who has crawled out of the fetid swamp of reality television. No to any ‘artsy shower scenes’. No to your sports marketing deals.” The snarl brightens into a smile and somehow that’s worse. “In fact, I have a list of ‘Thou Shalt and Shalt Nots’ here which you can give to whomever you choose to re-write your pitch - and I would be very careful to follow _each _and _every _commandment therein.” With this he throws a small notebook encased in excessively expensive leather down upon the table where, revolving as it travels, it finally comes to a stop in front of the female producer. 

The tax accountant, a man apparently with what imagination he once possessed having been wrung out of him by many years of hunting loopholes and never-ending tables of repetitive figures, inadvisably opens his mouth. “What gives you the right to say what is and is not in the movie, huh? You putting money in or what?” He attempts a damning laugh and it rings hollow under the gaze of the stranger with the sunglasses and the red hair.

With this received gauntlet, Crowley flops back into the seat behind him and stares intensely at the ceiling for some moments before levelling his gaze back at the unfortunate money-man. “Because, my friends, Paddington is more than a series of books about a good-natured family and a lost and marmalade obsessed bear. It is a trust for the ages, a beacon of hope that goodwill and a wish to do well can triumph against the petty follies of Mankind. Because people have found succour and consolation in his innocence when the World seems to make no sense.” He leans forward in his chair and everyone else in the room subconsciously leans back. “Because the World is sick of ‘grim dark’ and ‘gritty reality’ and just wants a film that leaves people feeling happy at the end.” He stands gracefully and takes off his sunglasses in one perfect motion of fluidity.

(Later it was decided that it was the lights that had made his eyes seem to flicker in shades of mustard and cinnabar; but what was certain is that, in that instant, everyone in the room suddenly remembered the worst, most shaming thing they had done to earn their place sitting at the table.)

“And because, ladies and gentlemen, if you _fuck __this __up_, I will drag all your darkest secrets out squealing into the open and expose you to the howling masses of ‘friends’, lackies and lickspittles who are waiting for the faintest sign of weakness to pull you down into their morass. You will be so miserable that you will wish for death to come and even then, gentlemen, ladies,” his grin is a terrible flash of naked predatory ivory, “your torment will have only just started.” With a crack, the marble splits asunder and the unlikely slender man in black is no longer there.

In the silence that remains, the producer reaches out and cautiously flicks through the notebook. Nervously she laughs. “It’s not all that bad? He says we should cast Julie Walters. Hell, everyone knows that it is one of the rules of film-making: every elderly English lady who doesn’t have a title has to be played by her. I think that’s graven in stone somewhere…”

Back in his Mayfair flat, Crowley opens the wall safe that hides behind the sketch of the Mona Lisa. There is a battered thermos flask with pale tartan patterning and a vintage teddy bear in a blue duffle coat and shapeless red felt hat. The Demon picks up the bear reverently. “It will be alright,” he says. “I fixed it.” A pause. “And if they _dare _fuck it up _I’ll burn them all…” _He nods seriously at the bear and places him gently back in the safe.

* * *

Aziraphale almost drops the scales, fumbles, catches them, and then just regards them sadly as they sit in his palm. It has taken him, he realises, far too long to both accept and understand that if Angels might be brutal when it suits them, who’s to say Demons might not be kind?


	20. Nine While Nine And I’m Waiting

Bedlam finds the scales more swiftly than Aziraphale does. He’s not certain if it’s because she’s better at looking or if it’s because she’s more business-like. She handles the scales with an economic efficiency, stowing them in her satchel as quickly as possible so she has little contact with Crowley’s thoughts.

Aziraphale on the other hand can’t help but be sucked into them, these beautiful jewels of memory…

* * *

The club in Leeds is small and filled with black-clad young persons: several of whom have imbibed more speed or cider and black than is good for them. Crowley has consumed both, but being an Occult individual it’s only giving him a pleasant buzz rather than liver failure. The band in this sordid little pub is a local one and he’s not sure why he’s here. He had a peculiar idea that he could escape himself. He doesn’t know why he needs to exactly, but every once in a while he gets too tired and just wants to sleep for a year or so: not something that is always permissible.

He doesn’t play music, but he appreciates it - clever, _clever _Humans with their deft fingers and strange poetry, forcing feelings into song and sound. The lead singer of this particular band has ragged black hair under a fedora and holds a cigarette as he growls out Bob Dylan and Velvet Underground covers in a voice that sounds like his neck’s been slit with a Marlboro cigarette and filled with gravel.

_“Knock knock knocking on Heaven’s door,” _he sings.

The Demon is beginning to think it was a bad idea to come here. His lips twitch into a snarl.

“Oi, mate?” a very young, inebriated, and stupid man calls out. “You a pansy or what?”

Crowley pulls down his sunglasses. “Try me,” he dares.

The young man does not.

The Demon sighs: pity, he’s quite in the mood to raise some Hell. He returns to his perch in the corner, close to one of the amps. The next song is better, technically.

_“Pass the crystal spread the Tarot_  
_In illusion comfort lies_  
_ The safest way the straight and narrow_  
_ No confusion no surprise…”_

_All very well for Alice in her party dress, _he thinks, _but what on Earth am I meant to do? _He considers then the donning of a party dress but these days it seems to be more trouble than it’s worth. (Or perhaps, he acknowledges, he’s finding everything to be more trouble than it’s worth?) His hair is teased up and backcombed in a rusty halo, his leather jacket adorned with studs, and he’s wearing as much if not more eyeliner as anyone else in the club. He’s not sure what it is about his appearance that caused him to be called out - nor why he should have been.

He doesn’t exactly enjoy the rest of the concert, but by the end of the evening he’s stolen the lead singer’s zippo lighter and mirrored sunglasses, which does cheer him up a little.

* * *

Bedlam waits for Aziraphale to catch up and then points imperiously to the pitch-black feathers at her feet. “Yours, I think,” she says with an odd smile.

He doesn’t argue, just bends down to pluck up the two feathers that are darker than the Void and sheened with star-shine…

* * *

They are in the ruins of what once was the Church of St Andrew in Holborn. “That was very kind of you.”

_“Shut it,” _he says, polishing his sunglasses because he doesn’t know what to do with praise or gratitude and a Demon could only move so fast.

“The books!” the Angel’s sudden remorse is palpable in the sooty air. “They’ll have been blown to…”

Crowley yanks the leather Gladstone from the cooling fingers of the dead Nazi. “Little Demonic miracle of my own.” He hands it to the Angel; the Principality’s fingers brush like feathers over the edge of his and he refuses to shiver. “Lift home?” he calls brightly, trying to pretend his feet aren’t blistered and bleeding and he didn’t just save a bloody Angel from discorporation because, really, what sort of Demon did that? He stalks with as much of his usual swagger towards the Bentley as he can, the uneven terrain of the rubble disguising his less than certain footing.

It’s one in the morning when he returns to the church; there are small beads of sweat dotting his forehead between his hat brim and glasses. The ground still smarts and his feet aren’t happy he’s brought them back here for Round Two. He scrambles over the rubble, blistering his fingers as he touches some particularly Holy bit of stonemasonry. He blesses and curses under his breath.

He Miracles up a heavy woolen blanket and flings that over the stone eagle before awkwardly hefting it into his arms. His spine protests at the weight and he huffs out an ‘oof’ of effort. The blessed thing is heavy. His feet are screaming at him and his socks are soaked in blood by the time he’s worked his way across the rubble, out of the churchyard and safely back onto non-consecrated ground. He doesn’t rest until he’s maneuvered the eagle into the back of the Bentley on the leather seat there. He collapses into the driver’s seat and inhales several steadying breaths, takes off his hat and mops at his brow with his handkerchief. He glances at the blanket-covered eagle and his lips twitch up at one side. “Ha!” he says to no one in particular.

Angels are beings of Love and Grace, Demons, not so much. Everybody is overjoyed to see an Angel. No one, except particularly dense occultists who don’t know a bad thing when it materializes in a pentagram, is ever pleased to see a Demon. Crowley hadn’t missed the look of utter wonderment and delight on Aziraphale’s face when he’d been handed the Gladstone bag of books. He didn’t ever want to forget it either, hence his rather awkward souvenir.

He swings his legs inside the car and closes the door. “Home again, home again,” he tells the Bentley tiredly because even the idea of pushing the soles of his shoes against the pedals makes him nauseous. The Bentley obligingly pulls away from the kerb and heads West towards Mayfair.

* * *

Bedlam places a hand on his shoulder, recalling the Angel from his reverie. “Principality,” she says gently, warningly. “We have work to do. Why have you faltered?”

The Angel stutters, the words confusing and too large of a sudden for his mouth. He looks up at her. “He’s my friend. He - he’s my everything,” he confesses as if that’s an adequate explanation.

The baleful fire of Bedlam’s eyes dims and a quiet smile graces her lips. _“Te ha’aleh t’yazan inequed, kus ha’a’ef ahje bin,” _she announces. “GET UP. We have work to do.”

Aziraphale nods unhappily. “How will we know?”

“KNOW?”

“Know when - when we - all the pieces -when…”

Her smile is sharp and terrible and she blazes, an inferno of insanity. “I’LL KNOW,” she tells him.

It’s mostly black feathers now instead of scales. There’s a dusting of coverts on the ground. Aziraphale kneels and carefully gathers them up.

* * *

The Angel finds him at a dressing station at Bezu-le-Guery, curled in the corner, one of thirty or so tired, mud-stained young men in khaki with bandages wrapped around their eyes. The church and the schoolhouse beside it have both been given over to the wounded.

The Demon, asleep at the decimated lines at Marne when a stretcher-bearer found him, had initially been put in the church. That had spoilt his nap: he’d woken up with a yell and rocketed into the rain-washed street, confusing the doctors and volunteer nurses who worked there. It was assumed he was delirious with pain and he’d been coaxed and led back to the schoolhouse once he’d made it very clear he wasn’t setting foot inside the church again.

Even with bandages over his eyes, the Demon’s angular profile and rust-red hair are unmistakable. “You can’t sleep, Crowley!”

This is untrue. Crowley can and he fails to see why Aziraphale should stop him. “It’s chilly,” he mutters and he wraps himself tighter in the blanket, pulling it more securely over his shoulders. “Go away, angel,” he sounds grumpy and petulant because he is. Humanity goes too fast for him sometimes and with too much horrific vigor. It leaves him cold and wanting nothing more than to shed his Human form and curl up for a decade or two. The last time he’d felt like this had been the second century when he was due to attend a particularly gruesome martyrdom for Aziraphale… Crowley had thought the whole martyrdom business and the messy Holy deaths was one of the worst things Humanity had come up with. He’d thought it would be hard to top. But 1914 rolled round, some aristo got shot and all of a sudden there’s the Great War dumped on his head. Barbed wire and trenches and phosgene gas and Maxim guns. It makes the whole hot-poker-skin-peeling-thing look like child’s play…

He’s wrapped in the same nondescript woolen blanket as every one of the other soldiers. He lifts an edge of the bandages so he can peek one amber-yellow eye out from under them. “What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Sleeping!”

“You can’t sleep here!”

“Not with you shouting at me I can’t, no.”

“What on Earth possessed you to…”

“It’s quiet.”

The Angel had to give him that. “Are, are - are they dead?”

Crowley is instantly indignant. “Do I look like bloody Hastur?” he spits.

The Angel wants to say that most Humans severely affected by mustard gas complained a great deal more than those in Crowley’s company instead of sleeping until they healed or died, but decides against it. “We should leave,” he says instead.

_“Go on then.”_

If Aziraphale didn’t know better he’d say Crowley sounded heartsick. “The Bosh will be here in an hour.”

“So?”

“You’ll - we’ll - be discorporaterd.”

_“So?”_

That stops the Angel. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I think I’d rather be in Hell. At least Hell only punishes the guilty. War punishes everyone - no one’s _immune _to War.” His mouth twists. “Leave me alone. I don’t care.”

If that were true he wouldn’t have intervened and muted the agony of the survivors of the gas attack, but Aziraphale knows that if he asks Crowley will only say something flippant about their groans of pain disturbing his rest. “Please, Crowley. Come with me.”

There’s a pause of roughly three seconds before the Demon sighs histrionically and flings the blanket and bandages off himself. _“Fine. _We’d better be going somewhere warm.” He stoops to pick up and reclaim the blanket as an after thought, fashioning it like an Elizabethan half cloak.

“I’m certain I can manage that,” smiles Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The band Crowley goes to see is The Sisters of Mercy.
> 
> "Te ha’aleh t’yazan inequed, kus ha’a’ef ahje bin."  
\- translates as: 'You’re a fucking idiot and he’s worse.'  
(Because whilst she actually likes Aziraphale and Crowley, Bedlam is an Insanity fueled Star of very little patience.)


	21. Holi-ly

The scales are small and red but there are a lot of them amidst the scattering of black down. If he didn’t know better, Aziraphale would say they looked burnt somehow. He picks them up regardless and almost drops them a second later because the memories _writhe_.

* * *

Martyrdoms make Aziraphale uncomfortable.

Oh, they’re all well and good in the grand scheme of things and the Beautification of a Saint is marvellous. It’s just such a pity there has to be all that skinning and stabbing and boiling and putting to death in the first place. Heaven is very keen that such things are observed, and Aziraphale is dutiful: but he also passes them off to Crowley as often as he can as part of The Arrangement.

After all, Crowley’s a Demon; why should he be affected by an execution even if it is slowly roasting someone in a cauldron? That sort of thing must happen all the time in Hell… So Aziraphale Miracles the coin toss any time he’s called to bear witness to a martyrdom.

Crowley never says anything. He gets drunk, goes to the blessed executions, watches grimly, and then finds the nearest tavern to get drunker in. But by the fifth century, he’s had enough. Martyrdom isn’t Holy or Good or even Necessary - it’s bloody stupid as far as he’s concerned and besides, he’s never met a Saint he actually liked. (He will, centuries later, meet Francis of Assisi, and grudgingly admit he’s quite a nice bloke.) He didn’t see what was so amazing about these people getting themselves murdered holi-ly in inventive ways. The whole thing made him feel exhausted and morose. None the less, he thinks it’s time the Angel took back the responsibility of watching martyrdoms.

“Toss you for it?” He holds up a coin.

“Certainly. Heads.”

He flips the coin up into the air and Miracles it to come down tails.

Aziraphale Miracles it to come down heads.

The coin remains suspended in the air, spinning. They both watch it for several long seconds, the silence stretching awkwardly as they realise what’s happened.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says at length, sheepishly.

Crowley sighs. “Yeah.”

The Angel chuckles nervously.

Crowley tears his gaze away from the coin with an effort and snaps his fingers to vanish it. “Look, does anyone _have _to go? It’s not like it makes any difference. The poor bastard’s going to die whether we watch or not. He’ll be remembered for his steadfast faith and some monk will write a tedious account of his _thoroughly _Holy life - and all that will happen without us even being there!” There’s a hint of hopelessness in his voice. He doesn’t say ‘please’, Demons don’t, but the word hides in his tone.

Aziraphale belatedly realises Crowley may be unique amongst Demons in that he doesn’t enjoy Human suffering. Human inconvenience, yes, Human annoyance, certainly, but not actual suffering. “This is important, Crowley. Heaven has really taken a shine to this one - Alban will be Britain’s first native martyr! He’s set to be Patron Saint of converts, refugees and torture victims - won’t that be nice?”

“Why can’t you go?” he argues mulishly.

“I - well, I…” he clasps his hands together and looks wretched. “Michael’s been knuckling down on paperwork of late - quotas and reports and such like. And, well, I - I’ve rather let things slip.”

“Slip?”

“I’m behind on my Blessings and I have yet to file my Quarterly Report for this or last quarter!”

“What happened?”

Aziraphale gives him a low sideways look. “I got rather distracted.”

Crowley has the grace to register embarrassment, but only faintly. Crowley had been the distraction, showing off the cities of Londinium, Verulamuim and Camulodunum to the Angel, taking him to wine shops and introducing him to artists and merchants and all the fascinating Humans who he’d met since he’d been hanging around Roman Britain. (The weather was atrocious, but the place was very green and pleasant.) There had been many symposiums attended, many grand villas visited, many little plates of exquisite titbits sampled and many amphora of fine wines drunk.

“Alright,” the Demon says quickly, “yeah, alright, I’ll do the martyrdom.”

“Really?” the Angel beams at him. “Oh, thank you,” he says, relieved.

Crowley only hopes that feeling of Eden’s sunlight that had turned towards him for a few moments will be enough to console him when he’s watching some poor bastard get stuck with arrows or eaten by lions or whatever it is this time…

Crowley travels to Verulamuim and finds a local tavern: he hasn’t attended such events sober in centuries - and he usually vomits in a ditch after the hideous affair is done with.

He’s made good innings on the wine and has a plethora of empty jars and ale flagons littering his table; he figures he has another hour of solid drinking he can cram in before he has to watch the spectacle of Holy bloodshed.

He does not expect to see Aziraphale’s blond-haloed and usually beneficent countenance glaring sternly down at him like a small fluffy storm cloud.

“Crowley!”

“Er, hi,” he offers. “What are you doing here?”

“I ran into Kambiel - lovely girl, not the stuck up sort - when I was walking back to my lodgings. She was at a loose end and didn’t mind staying a day or two more in Camulodunum to take in the sights - she’s very into glassmaking, can stand in an artisan’s workshop for hours… Anyway, she offered to make up my quota on the Blessing front, so that only left the Quarterly Reports. Those never take me that long, I can almost do them by rote. So I thought I’d attend the martyrdom after all - we could attend together.”

_“Rubbish day out,” _the Demon mutters to the table.

“Are you _inebriated?”_

"Look," Crowley says drunkenly, desperately. "It’s all bollocks anyway. I mean, seems a high price to pay just to get to Heaven. Getting yourself murdered _\- holi-ly."_

“No, you cannot tell them that!" Aziraphale looks almost cross. "They’ve spent their entire life believing that there is a Benevolent Deity and you just cannot take that away from them when they’re in pain and desperately seeking the salvation they need..."

"I wasn’t gonna tell them anything. Don’t image they’re feeling very chatty when they’re having their skin peeled off in the name of the Almighty. I was telling _you_, angel. The whole martyr thing is..." Words seem to fail him. "Tacky," he decides at last.

Aziraphale looks thoughtfully at the Demon. "At least this way, when people insist on doing painful things in the name of faith, they get a reward. I mean, they win the golden ticket direct to Salvation. I cannot help but feel that a number are disappointed at the lack of exclusivity Upstairs though…”

He frowns. "What, so if Gabriel and Co. had their way, not renouncing the Almighty whilst being boiled in oil wouldn’t be enough? St. Peter would be all ‘Sorry me old mate, your name’s not here?!’”

"Ah, no, no, it is slightly more complicated than that..." Aziraphale looks abashed and suddenly finds an empty wine jar to be intensely interesting.

Crowley’s mouth twists and an eyebrow rises over his smoky-quartz glasses. "Oh yeah? How much more complicated exactly?" A long, hard look and then a sigh. "Angel, Gabriel’s a wanker. You should try admitting that some time."

"Now, now, he is a Righteous Spirit of the Wrath of God," Aziraphale’s attempt to look pious fails miserably when what would, if not on the face of an Angel, be called a sly smirk appears. "Besides, I am moderately certain he would not know how to, _you know... _No, for once this really is not his fault. In fact, your side has been blamed for this botch-up - I mean, example of Her Ineffable Will."

Crowley scowls at the word ‘Righteous’ but his expression softens and becomes positively Puck-ish when the Angel implies Gabriel has never sullied the temple of his body with the sin of Onanism. It falters a moment later, but he opts to sidestep that issue for now. "Sorry, how is it my fault Gabriel doesn’t know how to wank?" He manages the question with a straight face too, although even he’s not sure how.

Aziraphale stops to consider the matter. "Well, if you follow the argument that sex for anything other than procreation in marriage - and masturbation in particular - is a sin, then Gabriel is probably incapable of... well _that_…” He pauses and with a tired voice adds, "Along with having a sense of humour, irony, appreciating music that is low on harp content, and forgetting the centennial Performance and Appraisal Reports..."

Crowley discovers that facetiousness aside, he doesn’t really want to think about what sexual things Gabriel may or may not be capable of. He makes a sour face as if he’s just sobered up in a hurry (he hasn’t). "The centennial what?" He asks sharply and then, "Naah, no, never mind. Oi, look, seriously, how can anything be a Hellish Balls Up and the Almighty’s Perfect Ineffable Will? If it’s my bloody fault then She’s not running the show - if She is running the show it’s all Predestined, isn’t it? I can’t _defy _the Almighty." There is a deep well of bitterness in that last statement. Crowley has had a long time to think about Divine Will and Omnipotent Beings and exactly - philosophically speaking - where that places him.

The Angel looks upwards with a glance that falls somewhere on the scale between a pious prayer and a quick, guilty glance to see if anyone’s watching. "Well, it used to be relatively straightforward when the martyrdom was being done by the Romans or even the Pagan Hordes. I mean, there was no danger of awkward conversations with the person who has been responsible for your rather messy Beatification... Everybody had their own places and positions within the various planes, plateaus, circles, halls and fields of the Afterlife and, well, visiting was not really encouraged."

Crowley’s brows dip beneath his sunglasses. "I still don’t really get how that’s my fault," he complains mildly. "Also, you know the rules - no religious philosophy without alcohol - my brain can’t take it."

Aziraphale succeeds in making what he considers the heroic effort of _not _mentioning the epic quantities of alcohol Crowley has already consumed.

Meanwhile Crowley Miracles another flagon of wine, two of ale, and one of mead to the table. What he wants to say is, _‘Angel, how can you be so sure? You’re so clever! And certainty is so stupid!’ _But he doesn’t and probably never will.

"Now," Aziraphale purses his lips as he always does when lecturing on what he regards as a delicate matter. "There are differences of opinion - and all that awkwardness with all sides loudly denouncing the other as the work of The Devil..." He quirks a brow at his companion, expecting either an editorial comment or a fervent denial.

Crowley drinks from the wrong flagon, chokes down the mead with a grimace, and reaches for the ale, draining half of it. Finally he crosses his arms unsteadily in an attitude that should be confrontational but really just looks miserable. "Wasn’t bloody me," he mutters, the words all running together.

The Angel is about to let it go but, still smarting a little from the whole ‘tacky’ remark, makes a little ‘humph’ noise (which could, at times, be endearing). "Really? Look, I know how you want to claim that you just happen to be near when Humans come up with really bad ideas, and I am not saying directly that you personally translated the Bible or did the hammering at Golgotha, although I wouldn’t put it past you to have been casually strolling past with a bucket of nails, on the off-chance but..."At this point, his voice drops. "I know how many priests you - _we_\- tempted with the sight of a young maid. I know how many bishops were convinced that God wanted them to be wealthy, I know what you were told to do to the Church and...." his voice drops even lower, "What I assisted with... "

Aziraphale sits with a thousand yard stare, gazing into the middle distance, trying to keep a look of anguish off his face as to what The Arrangement had cost him, at what those little favours had led him to do. And how he hadn’t found it that hard, when all was said and done.

He shakes his head and smiles brightly at Crowley. "So, anyway, the difficult thing is when you have to admit a righteous soul to Heaven and he discovers, waiting for him on the other side of the Pearly Gates, is the ‘evil heretic’ who he had put to the torch a few years previously. I am told that a certain amount of hubbub and even Divine questioning is quite common at that moment." The Angel again examines the empty wine jar closely. "Explaining that a martyr for God is, well, what it says on the contract, is part of the transition period that can - if handled carelessly - mean that souls damn themselves on the edge of Salvation. All rather distressing and, well, Ineffable..."

Crowley has been steadfastly looking at the floor for some time now, arms still tightly crossed, although the way he cants his body is trying (and failing) to make it nonchalant. He could mention the Blessings he performed and the near-scrapes he got into when Hell almost found out, but he doesn’t. After all, what is this but another variation on the game he’s been playing since Khem…? "‘M sorry," he mutters on the edge of hearing. "The Arrangement was a bad idea. Obviously."

"Oh, no!" Hurt by his friend’s distress, Aziraphale reaches out and pats him on the shoulder as he can’t get at a hand to clasp. "No, no, it is not as if the Tempting wouldn’t have happened anyway. It was just..." his voice trails off. "Perhaps I should have spent a bit more time… actually Thwarting rather than visiting those nice little taverns. Still, as I said, I am sure it was all part of the Ineffable Plan or else it wouldn’t have happened."

Crowley swallows heavily and tries not to blink, very glad of his sunglasses. Sometimes the World is too much, and whilst he is silently grateful for the Angel’s company and concern, sometimes that just makes it worse. Demons aren’t meant to have feelings - it’s exhausting. He nods weakly. "Ineffable. Yeah."

"So, actually, having thought about it, I’ll attend this martyrdom. I mean, it was good of you to offer and I am frightfully grateful but, well, perhaps a bit of penitence is good for the soul.”

Crowley looks at him, startled, and for a moment there is unbridled gratitude in his expression before he tries to get a hold of himself and fold it away out of sight. "Yeah, well," he manages, "righteous suffering, it’s more your side’s kinda thing..."

Aziraphale’s mouth cants up into an empty smile. "I do say that we are put on this Earth to suffer, and I can certainly suffer a glass of this fine vintage before duty calls." His eyes fade off into his own World. His voice catches on the agony of the scene playing itself out in front of him. "Ah yes, they’ve only got to the beating stage, plenty of time…" With this, he silently pours himself a very large glass of wine and drinks.

"It’ll happen anyway. Whether we’re there or not," Crowley says, and it should be blank or flippant but there’s something distrait in his tone. He grabs the wine jug and for a moment looks like he’s going to drink straight from it before shakily filling his cup. "Could we not?" he mumbles into his wine, "and say we did?"

At this there is a look of genuine sadness on Aziraphale’s face. "And who would know? Apart from the poor soul undergoing torture..." He drains his cup and stands up. "Duty awaits and, regardless of what else I have done, I still know my duty." He smiles and pats Crowley’s shoulder again. "You know, I was wondering why some of the more enthusiastic of Her worshippers flagellate themselves. I think I understand a bit more now. Paying for your sins can be ... cleansing. Until next time." And with a vague wave he walks away from the table and leaves the tavern.

Crowley closes his eyes and sighs. And then he follows, wine jar in hand, pitching up at the Angel’s left shoulder just as all the hot poker business is starting. "Humans," he mutters queasily, because he does love them, but really, what the _fuck?_


	22. Strange Bedfellows

They’ve never mentioned the coin toss again, Aziraphale realises, and he’s certain neither of them has dared to Miracle the toss since. It’s become one of their unspoken rules. They’ve never discussed martyrdoms again either, but that’s because after watching Crowley miserably throw up ale and bile into a dusty ditch and feeling his own stomach turn in sympathy, the Angel decided neither of them need ever attend another martyrdom.

* * *

The landscape has changed: they’re now in badly lit halls that remind the Angel of the earliest London Underground stations - endless soot and tiles and tunnels. “Where are we?” he asks, looking at a grubby poster that proclaims, DON’T LICK THE WALLS.

“Probably Hell,” Bedlam says brightly as if Dis And Pandemonium are nothing but a new park to be explored.

Aziraphale gives her an anxious look. “Shouldn’t we have some sort of… protection?”

“We haven’t actually left Sanctuary,” she reminds him.

“But this - aren’t these Crowley’s memories?”

“Mm,” she agrees vaguely, still forging ahead. “Or his soul, if you like.”

“But - but I’d feel a lot better if I had a weapon…”

She stops halfway through a step and pivots back to face him. _“BEWARE, PRINCIPALITY,” _she says grinning like a goblin and speaking in the tone of someone who relishes ghost stories. “That’s a narrow path to walk. Believe yourself in danger here and you may well find it to be true.”

“He’d never harm me!” Aziraphale protests.

The feral grin remains. “Mm, but he’s not really here right now, is he?” she counters.

The Angel casts his gaze to the ground. “I, ah, I - I suppose not.”

Another off-kilter pivot and she’s striding ahead again. “Come _along_, angel…” The voice is different, but the tone is Crowley’s.

* * *

The landscape changes again: all of a sudden the tunnels open up and they’re at Tadfield Airbase, walking across the tarmac towards Armageddon. The ground shakes and fractures as something vast and furious and beyond terrible tears itself out of the ground…

“Oh no,” the Angel utters.

Bedlam stares up at the Lucifer of Crowley’s nightmares. Her eyes start to bleed and her smile gets wider and she refuses to blink because they are in her house and if anyone is the Celestial bogeyman under the bed it’s her and she will not be bested by one idiot Serpent’s terrified Imagination… _Sod this. _If she’s known one threat to always work it’s the one she’s speaking now: _“IM HA’AF WEBA’T PEN-BEW EN TE KUS WANAHJE AHJE, TE REKH…” _She grins as she says it, a star-bright bastard grin, sharper than broken glass.

Satan looks horrified and dissolves into ash on the wind.

_“Wanker,” _she mutters with feeling, blinking the last of the bloody tears from her eyes and leaving them to dry on her cheeks like a medal awarded for spite.

Aziraphale doesn’t think that’s a very ladylike thing to say.

She makes a frustrated noise and says something even more unladylike - not to mention infinitely rude - in Kherubic.

“What is it?”

She rolls her shoulders uncomfortably and then her eyes for good measure: the tilt of her brows and the contempt of her mouth highlighting the expression. “We’re carrying Crowley’s essence - his soul, or near enough. And it bloody _radiates_. The more we have, the stronger it radiates.” A hissing sigh. “I have no interest in saying ‘wahoo’. Nor do I care what ‘ciao’ means,” Bedlam elaborates with a surprising amount of calmness, then spoils the effect by muttering,_“Inenqued t’yazan djedefet.”_

The Angel winces and then regards the five secondaries on the ground, each feather at least as long as his forearm if not longer. Midnight black and speckled with stardust. He picks them up reverently…

* * *

Under a mess of copper curls and a corner of blanket, the Demon covertly watches the Angel wake up.

Aziraphale is… Well, he is - he still exists - and that’s a splendid start because he hadn’t been sure for a while. His head hurts quite ferociously, but he looks at the pain sternly until it drains and finally leaves his corporeal form entirely. That’s better. His mouth is still dry and there’s an unpleasant hint of sour wine and bile at the back of his throat. He wonders if there’s a jug of water somewhere…

The Angel is lying on a pile of straw and animal skins in the corner of a low-roofed building. He isn’t certain how he got here nor where _here _is. There’s a wooden table and two stools in the room, along with a shelf on the wall that holds a couple of pottery bowls and beakers. In the hazy dawn light coming through the window he can’t see a convenient water-skin or jug. _Bother_.

The memories of yesterday’s events come back to him. Oh dear. How was he to explain _that _to Heaven? Tempted to wine by Eden’s Serpent after watching the execution of the Son of God? It wasn’t a promising start.

_(Drinking and ranting and drinking and feeling so painfully confused and drinking because his heart hurt and he wouldn’t question the Almighty but the Ineffable Plan didn’t seem very _fair_and drinking and sobbing and drinking some more… _Best not to mention that bit - well - any of it.)

Ending up being physically dragged from the wine shop and put to bed in an unknown dwelling after getting epically sozzled with Eden’s Serpent was certainly not a good follow up as far as reports went. And - oh - oh goodness… Waking at dawn, curled up amidst animal skins and sweet rushes _with _Eden’s lanky-limbed Serpent? He shuddered to think what would happen if he revealed that fact. How in the Almighty’s Name had it happened anyway?

_“Wha’ - wha’re you doin’?” he’d incoherently asked <strike>Crawly</strike> Crowley who was trying to roll the Angel over to the far side of the sleeping space._

_“‘M not gonna ssleep on th’ _blessed floor_,” he’d said, indignant. “‘S my bed.” A grin followed that tried to look scandalously flirtatious but mostly looked endearing. “__Beee not f’getful to enertain sstrangerss: for s’mthin’ s’mthin' angelss uh-unawaress.” He’d looked pleased with himself. “Thass you, that iss.” He’d wobbled then, unable to keep hold of his balance and complex sentence structure at the same time, he’d grabbed the edge of one of the goatskins and prevented himself from falling off the floor.“F’ the love of Sssomeone angel, jus’ go t’ ssleep, y’ drunk.” _

_“O’course I’m drunk - you tem-tep-tehh - you wiled me!” _

_The Serpent had grinned lopsidedly, his eyes bright with inebriated amusement. “I’m ver’ wicked,” he’d confessed. “Alssso ver’ drunk. _C’mon angelll…”_The last word held a quantity of pleading amongst the slurring of sound, which had taken Aziraphale by surprise: he’d stared at the Demon, wide-eyed. _

_“Ohh, fiiine then!” Crowley said with a dramatic gesture and a certain amount of petulance. “I’ll jussst go fin’ sssomewhere elsse t’be. ‘Sss not like I can kick you out, iss it? I mean… that getss you sm’tted. Ssmote. Sssmitten? Ssmit? _Trouble_. Turned t’ ssalt,” he said with the queasy knowledge of one who’d seen punishment meted out and had yet to forget it. “Dun ssee,” he muttered, “what was sso bad ‘bout her lookin’. Sshe probl’y forgot ssomethin’ like a cookin’ pot,” he added mournfully. His mood turned in drunken gyres, and the yellow-gold of his eyes glazed with tears. _

_Aziraphale hadn’t been able to bear it and had seized the Demon instinctively in both arms, rather like a child might grab a toy or baby animal, and pulled him down with him amongst the bedding. The Serpent had made a surprised sound of one being violently grabbed about the diaphragm - ‘Ngk!’ - but then submitted with ease once under the blankets and had wriggled until he was curled comfortably against the Angel who still hadn’t quite managed to let go of him._

Aziraphale utters a small squeak as that memory falls into place and claps a hand against his mouth. It would be best if he leaves, he thinks, knowing his cheeks are flushing with shame but horribly aware the shame is misplaced: he feels it, but he knows he’s not feeling it about the correct things.

There’s movement behind him, a rustle of straw and fabric. “What were you thinking to make that noise?” inquires a sleepy wine-and-honey voice. “Do share…” A languid hand reaches out and rests on the Angel’s thigh.

Aziraphale does not flee - he’s an Angel of the Lord - and Angels certainly do not flee. Upon occasion they simply leave with great speed. This is one such occasion.

Crowley watches the Angel’s exit silently, a little frown knifed between his brows, eyes wide, mouth pressed small with unhappiness. He reaches up a hand and rubs fretfully at the frown as if it is an actual wound that pains him. Then he cradles his forehead in his palm and hisses out mournfully, “What did you say that for, you bloody idiot?” before curling back against the animal skins and pulling the blanket over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Im ha’af weba’t pen-bew en te, kus wanahje ahje, te rekh..." - 'There’s a room here for you, and many more, you know...'
> 
> "Inenqued t’yazan djedefet." - 'Idiot fucking snake.'


	23. Chaos, Sunlight, And Questions

Bedlam delicately plucks two feathers - sleek alula - from the floor and places them in her satchel. She looks around for Aziraphale and sees him on his knees, head bowed, something clutched tightly in his fist. She sighs.

* * *

“Let us recount the deeds of the Inundation!” Pasht-Sekhmet roars with glee, raising her cup and somehow managing not to spill her beer. She’s tall and broad-shouldered and her hair is a golden mane. “I’ll begin,” she adds, and those gathered round the table grin at one another because of course she’ll begin. “I purified three wells. I told Hell it was so they could make more beer, get drunk, and fuck up!” Her smile is wide and bright.

Neputhet, small, dainty and dark-haired, is next. “I gave them funerary rites that comforted the mourners and the dead. I told Hell it turned them away from Heaven.”

Everyone toasts that loudly and Neputhet blushes, pleased.

Sut, his long hair in clay-rolled braids, stands next. “I invented the spear,” he announces happily. “I told Hell it was so the Humans might murder one another more efficiently!”

Another rowdy toast - that was a ballsy one.

Aset stands, confident and self composed as the laughter bubbles down. “I taught the women how to braid and coil their hair. I told Hell it would inspire lust!” She smiles gleefully, biting the tip of her tongue between her teeth, and everyone at the table collectively rejoices.

“I stopped their goats dying,” says Ra-Horakhty. His hair is wild and his beard mighty: he sprawls upon his bench and gives a vast and lazy smile.

Everyone waits to hear how he justified that.

“I said the goat was an Earthly embodiment of Lucifer. Obviously.”

There is silence for five whole seconds before the table erupts into raucous cheers.

Tall, obsidian-skinned Anpu, usually quiet but always willing to join in, stands. “I enticed them to explore other lands. Apparently,” he adds, embarrassed, “I didn’t have to explain that one. _Apparently _that was enough.”

They laugh and praise him. Eyes roam to those who have yet to speak.

Tanned Heru-Asir leans back in his chair, mirroring Ra-Horakhty’s posture, and his many earrings jangle. “I led a couple of families out of the desert. I haven’t really worked up an excuse for it yet,” he admits, although he doesn’t look like he much cares.

_“I took the form of a crocodile and ate anything that would harm the children who swam in the Nile,” _Ammit says suddenly with an alarmingly wide smile. Her teeth are many and crooked; her hair has a greenish tint and is bound in narrow plaits. It’s not difficult to see her as a crocodile.

Everyone looks at her, curious.

“Death destruction good?” she hazards.

Clay cups are raised again. “Yey!”

The occupants of the table turn towards both Ma’at and Jheuty-Wadjet in expectation. “I gave them Justice,” Ma’at says quietly, pearl eyes shining. “I claimed it overcame Mercy.”

There is a stunned silence at that, followed by quiet impressed words of praise. “You really are superb at this little game,” Ra-Horakhty toasts her.

Ma’at looks at Jheuty-Wadjet and touches his hand. “Go on…”

Jheuty dips his chin, staring at the dregs of his drink, the blood red curls of his hair curtaining his face. “Choicess,” he says. “I gave them choicess.”

The rest consider this vague but find it worthy. “How’d you justify it?”

A crooked grin, shy at the edges. “What could possssibly cause more trouble than that?”

“More beer!” Pasht Sekhmet calls, and the rest of the table rowdily agree.

* * *

Aziraphale is on his knees in what appears to be a nighttime desert, a palm-full of bright red scales in his fist. “Oh Crowley,” he says very softly, his chest constricting and his throat filling with rocks he can’t swallow past. Crowley had said he’d been in Khem with friends, drinking and causing mischief. And Aziraphale had believed him, but hadn’t understood that ten renegade Demons could possibly have ever been beneficial to Humanity. He had thought that the Plagues of Egypt not only freed God’s Chosen People but also punished the wicked and had been content with his part in the whole horrid, necessary business.

_I’m not having you wield that fucking sword, angel - and that’s the end of it._

The words echo in his memory and he feels more responsible than he ever could have wished to.

Crowley had witnessed the Tenth Plague, or seen the aftermath at any rate.

_“Death of the firstborn really did a job on Ammit - I’d say they exceeded expectation on that one. Hell dragged her down to the Pit after for a good talking to; she was only meant to be tortured for a hundred years. They unfettered her, but she won’t leave, just keeps pulling more people in…”_

That’s what Crowley had said, and then he’d giggled, a sound equal parts misery and hysteria. Ammit who protected children by eating their enemies and whose punishment had been the Death of the Firstborn… And Aziraphale had been unable to admit it had been by his hand that Ammit had been cast down and her reason curdled into endless rage.

The further he walks this path, the clearer it is becoming to the Angel that Crowley ought hate him as a substantial orchestrator of his miseries, both past and present…

Bedlam’s hand is on his shoulder although he hadn’t sensed her approach. “Don’t mourn, Principality,” she advises. “FIX IT.”

It was not a direct command to get to his feet, but it is infinitely uncomfortable to sit in the presence of a singularly pissy star whose displeasure is Blazing Just For You. Far better to get on with things and hope the blaze of that bright displeasure wains.

Aziraphale drops the scales into his satchel and gets to his feet.

Bedlam is already a dozen paces away, pointing like a figure in a Classical painting to something on the ground. Her lips quirk up as the Angel approaches. “You should field this one,” she says, and although her tone is calm it’s not a suggestion.

Aziraphale hurries to her side and sees two transparent and oddly shaped scales on the ground. “Are those…?”

Bedlam looks at him. She isn’t wearing sunglasses and she makes no gesture, but in that slow-turned glower, all he can see is Crowley, raking down his sunglasses so he might look over their rims in a sarcastic fashion.

The Angel kneels and picks up the two eye-scales.

* * *

It’s a beautiful day; all the days of Eden are.

Crawly is procrastinating: he knows he is but he doesn’t particularly care. They said to make trouble but they hadn’t provided a time frame. (Crawly was the king of technicality and interpretation. He hadn’t been a very good Angel and couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to be a better Demon. He liked it best when he simply was, and asked questions. He was determined and clever and capable of pettiness, but all of those qualities had an eventual end to them. Curiosity was the only one that never gave out. Crawly was curious about Eden, curious about the Almighty’s new creations, curious about everything.

He’d watched the creation of the nameless innocent thing Adam couldn’t bring himself to touch and seen her fall back to blood and bile and tears. He’d seen Lilith strut and preen, glorying in her own existence - and had noted how jealous Adam became. Crawly didn’t understand why Adam sought to clip or sour Lilith’s passion. Neither did Lilith.

Then Lilith was gone, and here was Eve: created of and for Adam in a way that the previous two wives had not been. Crawly felt uncomfortable and couldn’t articulate why; not that anyone was about to ask his opinion. He sulked and slithered into the apple tree, twining himself around one of the branches.

_You make things all the time and then if they do anything unexpected you throw them away. I thought you knew everything? Do you make us broken, just to be thrown away? I hate you! _his soul screams, but it’s not so much hate as anguish. _You’re horrible, _he thinks miserably, drooping across the branch.

There’s the warmth of a palm under his chin - not with leaves but five fingers. He raises his head to meet the startlingly blue eyes of an Angel. “Oh sshit,” he hisses silently.

“Aren’t you beautiful?” the Angel murmurs. “I have to guard this tree sometimes. But it’s only the _eating _of the fruit the Almighty objects to, I don’t know of any dictate that forbids creatures nesting within the branches of the tree itself.” Another gentle caress along serpentine scales. “Enjoy the sunshine, my dear,” the Principality suggests and walks away towards the Eastern Gate.

The Serpent watches him go, like he’s watching the setting sun, and suddenly the branch doesn’t seem so cosy any more.

* * *

_‘Ssssunlight,’ _the Demon had admitted to Aziraphale millennia later, articulating how the Principality’s presence felt. The Angel had been at first worried and then glad, but now it occurs to him to examine the statement. Not to take it at face value, not to take it from a Serpent who’s cold blooded, but from a Demon who can acknowledge, feel and crave love.

* * *

Bedlam is a little way off, standing beside a single flight feather. She waits, statue still, for Aziraphale. “That one,” she says with a grim little smile. Aziralphale is put in mind of corporal punishment and ‘this is for your own good’ and perhaps even, ‘you will thank me for this later’. Her demeanor isn’t gleeful or righteous but it does hold an immovable adamantine edge that seeks to teach about the suffering of others. The Angel can tell that edge is coming for him now. He lets out a shaky sigh and takes hold of the feather…

* * *

A figure stands in the Silver City in the Atrium to the Almighty’s Throne. Several sets of dark wings adorn them, feathers sleek and glimmering with stardust. Ribbons of light sinuously orbit their person, like a living orrery of serpents. Their long hair is the colour of rubies at midnight, their face is delicate, and their eyes a rich citrine, marred by tears and a deep confusion.

“Yh-enen _siheqah?” _they ask in anguish, and in that instance the word is spoken, they feel it, and know they have broken something. Something that cannot ever be forgiven or fixed, nor redeemed or ever made whole again. One question, one little word, and it’s as if they shattered the sky - it’s horrible - incomprehensible. They never knew how sheltering the warmth of Her regard was until they were set outside it. How can the World end so easily? They shiver and bite their lip; the rejection is so complete, so sudden, it’s violent. “Eeshay - eeshay djed meh siheqah?” Their entreaty goes unanswered as the tears drip from their eyelashes.

There is a force that begins to press upon them: like ice, like guilt, like gravity, but a thousand times worse - and it hurts like nothing they’ve ever felt, forcing them to their knees in agony. They understand then: it’s not the sky they’ve irreparably shattered but their standing within the Choirs of the Host. They no longer belong amidst the spires of the Silver City: they are Cast Out.

“Eeshay …?” they utter again, the final word to leave their lips before they are yanked downwards with the force of an extinction-event asteroid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't remember where the story of Adam having three wives comes from, but Gaiman references it in Sandman.
> 
> “Yh-enen siheqah?" - But why?  
"Eeshay - eeshay djed meh siheqah?" - Please - please tell me why?


	24. Sanctuary

Aziraphale stuffs the feather into his satchel not willing to keep hold of it a moment longer. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Bedlam nudges him with her sandal.

_“Get up.”_

He can’t reply; he’s felt the first instance of Falling and it’s so hideous he can’t do anything, can’t wrap his mind around it…

“ANGEL.”

His chin snaps up, ready to say something in retaliation to Crowley… But it isn’t Crowley; it’s a cantankerous constellation instead.

Getting to his feet is hard, but he achieves it with a modicum of grace. “Yes… Ah… Yes,” he manages.

For once even her eyes are temperate, appreciating the pain of the lesson he just learnt. “We need to get on.”

“Of course. Lead the way,” he murmurs unhappily.

“I don’t think it’s far now - look…” she instructs.

The landscape has changed. Previously the sky felt low and oppressive and empty, but now it has unfurled to the cosmos beyond and there are infinite stars shining in their glory.

Aziraphale scans the ground for scales or feathers and can see none. “There - there don’t seem to be any…”

Bedlam is busy looking upwards and ignores him for a time. “Open the satchel and put it down,” she finally instructs, setting hers on the ground.

“How - how do you know?” Aziraphale asks. “How d’you know we’ve found all the pieces we need?”

“He’s a Serpent,” she says as if it’s perfectly evident. “We’ve been working our way back through his memories, tail to snout, following the coils like a labyrinth. We’re in the void where he once made stars. This is where he’s hidden most of himself. We’ve been walking in a spiral - didn’t you know?”

He hadn’t noticed, but then he supposed that Bedlam would be far more attuned to her Dominion than he was. He puts his satchel on the sand next to hers. “But how…”

“THOSE AREN’T STARS, PRINCIPALITY,” Bedlam says, fiercely gentle. “LOOK AGAIN.”

He tilts his head up to look at the swirling nebula above them, a hundred thousand scintillating flecks of light against the darkness, and realizes. “Oh!” he says in wonder. “They’re scales!” Each star was a scale, each piece of blackness in-between a feather, all joined together like an Escher drawing, perfectly tessellated into the fragments of Celestial memories and soul that made up Crowley. It was beautiful in its way, but heartbreaking too to see the winged Serpent of Eden reduced to a jigsaw puzzle of feathers and scales. “Oh Crowley,” he says very quietly and can feel the hot spill of tears running down his cheek.

“STEP BACK,” Bedlam instructs. “IT IS BEST IF I GET THIS RIGHT FIRST TIME.”

The Angel doesn’t like that statement, it implies she could get it wrong, but there isn’t anything else to do but step away and let her work.

Bedlam’s power starts to emanate, starlight and insanity bleeding from her hands and blazing from her eyes as her lips stretch into a grin. “TEHN SIH-KHET HA’AF HADJI’A DEWA TE-TENEW HAAL MIQED.” She raises her hands to the sky and the firmament of Crowley’s soul starts to tremble. _“KEH D’JED NE TE, TE INEQUED DJEDEFET,” _she adds before wrenching her arms down and burying her fists into the two satchels full of scales and feathers.

With a terrible cry of thunder and anguish, the sky of Crowley’s soul shatters and falls.

* * *

Aziraphale blinks, disorientated, the echo of that awful cry still ringing in his ears; he’s in the stone cell of Sanctuary once more with its Gothic archways and sunlit cloisters. Bedlam is leaning over Crowley, one of his forearms clasped in each of her fists, smoke and a faint smell of ozone and charred skin coming from beneath her palms. Aziraphale opens his mouth to protest, but already the starlight of Bedlam’s power is fading.

She lets go of his wrists, laying each carefully upon the blanket. There are marks on Crowley’s skin: two handprints that have seared his flesh to a dead grey-white. Bedlam makes a gesture and the burns are salved and snuggly wrapped beneath strips of bandage. She stands up, palms hastily smoothing down the skirts of her dress.

She’s back in her silk gown, the Angel notes, although he’s still in his tunic and toga.

“Stop looking so bloody anguished,” she admonishes. “His soul and sanity are fractured, but in one piece. He’ll be able to heal the damage to his body when he wakes - although, I should imagine he’d like to heal his hands first.”

Crowley’s hands are still a raw and skeletal mess under their bandages: the Demon hasn’t had the energy nor been cognizant enough to counter the damage the Sword of War wrought.

“Probably the hip, scapula, and ribs next - then he might attend to these burns...”

“How can you be so calm about another’s pain?”

Her smile is crooked and tinged with deep sadness. “Walk the Wards of Sanctuary with me, Principality, and I will show you far greater pain.”

“Is it fair to quantify suffering in…”

“HE WILL HEAL. MANY HERE DO NOT - OR DO NOT YET. AND THEY HAVE BEEN HERE FOR A LONG TIME… He does like burning himself out though, doesn’t he?” she comments.

“He always has gone a little fast,” Aziraphale agrees with a tight and unhappy smile. He remembers his manners: “Thank you. For your help,” he says earnestly.

_“Hm,” _she acknowledges. “Call if you need anything. I’ll look in tomorrow.” And then she’s gone, and the cell is empty of her presence.

* * *

“Crowley?”

The Serpent’s eyelids flicker and he twitches. The Angel immediately catches hold of him by the shoulders. “Crowley… Crowley, it’s alright, but my dear - you must heal your hands.”

“Nn?” He tries to shift but all it brings him is pain.

“Crowley, my dear,” he lays his palm against the Demon’s cheek. “Your hands have been very badly hurt, you need to heal them. Not to mention you have several broken bones…”

His eyes stutter open, pupils rolling sightlessly, comprehension slow in coming and unable to push past the agony of his injuries.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, a touch of steel entering his voice. “Crowley - heal your hands - heal your hands _right now.”_

The command registers on some level: he does so with a shuddering jolt and the effort exhausts him, the confused gold of his eyes shuttering closed again against the weight of the World and the boiling hot pain radiating from his shoulder, ribs and hip on his left side.

_“Crowley…” _Aziraphale says miserably.

The next time he wakes is no better, he’s still not cognizant of where he is.

“You’re alright,” the Principality tells him, “you’re alright… Come back to me. Sleep if you must my dear, but come back to me. I’m here. Come back to me when you’re ready.”

Crowley isn’t ready yet, not by a long chalk, he twitches and sounds pained and falls unconscious again.

Bedlam visits daily: she sits upon a low three-legged stool for an hour or so and glowers at him. Aziraphale isn’t certain how this helps and yet it seems to. A touch of colour returns to the Demon’s cheeks; he’s marginally less gaunt and Bedlam less annoyed. Apparently in Sanctuary sanity is dispensed via disapproval and glaring.

It has been a single day as the World measures time, but close to a month in Sanctuary.

“Enough, Serpent,” Bedlam announces when the she next visits. She’s dressed in blue linen with a wide apron covering her skirts; her ash-white hair is in a crooked fishtail plait over one shoulder. She looks business-like. “It’s time to wake up. You’ve slept enough, slothful thing…” She strides over to the head of the cot and leans over to place her palms at either side of the Demon’s face. “Serpent of Eden,” she says sternly. “TE HAAL DE’WA NEHS.”

Crowley arches, tense and semi waking, Bedlam’s instruction brutally hauling him towards consciousness and pain.

“Stop that - you’re hurting him!”

“He needs to wake up - otherwise he’ll forget how,” she says lightly, matter-of-fact.

“But - but we put him back together!”

Her hands move from Crowley’s face, her wrists snap back and her fingers claw at the air in an alarming display of temper barely held in check. “HE DOESN’T UNDERSTAND THAT. This isn’t a - a _faerytale,” _she spits. “He won’t just wake on the third morning. He’s a stubborn bastard, he won’t wake at all if he doesn’t understand it’s safe to come back. And the longer he stays asleep, the harder it will be for him to return.” Her hands relax and she huffs out a sigh. “You wake him up, if you can,” she offers. “I’ll give you three days.” A sharp and ironic little smile accompanies that statement. “But after that, I’ll drag him out if I must. OR WOULD YOU RATHER I LEFT HIM?” The star demands. “THIS IS HIS ROOM AFTER ALL. HE CAN ALWAYS STAY.”

The Angel bows his head.

“Wake him,” she instructs, “or I shall. He’s an idiot - both of you are.” And with that she leaves; the heels of her court shoes sounding loud in the hush of Sanctuary, but she closes the door gently enough behind her, so the Angel reasons it’s only the style of her slippers and not ongoing pique as he feared.

It has not occurred to him before to wonder about the room; he knows it’s the same as they visited previously, sunlit and facing the cloister garden, but he hadn’t thought on it further. He walks over to the archways, edged in intricate carvings leading up to a stone frieze just under the vault of the ceiling. The pattern is fig leaves and apples, and coiled behind them, peaking coyly out, are little snakes. Aziraphale’s mouth hangs open for a moment before he manages to close it and swallow dryly. He wonders what his room looks like. He wonders what will happen if Crowley doesn’t wake up… But he thinks he knows the answer to that - and it would mean he’d get to find out what his room looked like after all. He shakes his head, derailing his own morbid thoughts. He needs to attend to the matter at hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Tehn sih-khet ha’af hadji’a dewa te-tenew haal miqed. Keh d’jed ne te, te inequed djedefet." - That which is shattered shall now be whole. I mean you, you stupid snake.
> 
> "Te haal de’wa nehs." - You will wake up.


	25. As Though Of Hemlock I Had Drunk

Crowley isn’t certain where he is - isn’t certain who he is come to that - but there’s sunlight. It’s a fretful sort of light, frequently dimming as if obscured by clouds, or doubt. (Can sunlight be obscured by doubt?) But the sun is trying, quite bravely, to shine. And Crowley finds, like a heliotropic plant, that he’s pulled towards it. He wants to coil round the sunlight and feel the heat of it against his belly, feel the warmth and purity of it radiating into his blood.

Hazily he tries to move. Arms twine round him - one immediately taking his right wrist and carefully lying it across his chest. He makes an incoherent noise. The hand doesn’t let go. “Nnngh…” he starts to struggle.

“Please,” someone says. And, “Dearest?”

He twitches, unable to be quiescent but achieving very little in way of resistance. “Crowley?” is uttered close to his ear. He flinches, a movement that runs through his frame like a convulsion. A palm is cupping his face, fingers pressing gently along his cheekbone, soft slivers of sunlight.

“Crowley? Crowley - please…”

Please doesn’t mean anything, nor does his name really. He’d chosen it such a long time ago, but the sound is no more than an audio scribble in the air: one more thing he can’t deal with right now.

“Crowley?”

He tries to leave, or at least he thinks he does, tries to get up, tries to do something - anything - his right arm is grabbed again and pushed back against his chest. He manages to open his eyes, but only for a moment. “Wha’?” he croaks.

“My dear, please…”

He isn’t certain what reply he expected but that certainly isn’t it. “Nnnghh…”

The grip on his arm intensifies and, _“Crowley stop being obstreperous!” _is hissed in his ear.

That pained annoyance is familiar to him and he stills in confusion, his eyes struggling to focus on something - anything - because they don’t seem to be working right now and he can’t tell what’s real because it couldn’t be - it couldn’t - it…

He tries to move, to arch his spine and lever himself out of whatever position he’s in but it doesn’t work and the bones on his left side seem to be made of acid or lightning, burning him from the inside out.

“Stop that,” says the voice and his arm is pinned again.

The sunlight’s gone, blanketed in storm-clouds of worry. He wants to move, doesn’t want to be pressed down; his arm hurts less when it’s across his chest like that, but there’s something rebellious and panicked in his soul that can’t stand to be pinned or pressed upon. He makes a final effort to reclaim his arm and is rewarded with flashes of white-hot agony that gnaw at the edges of his consciousness. He tries to snap his fingers, tries to draw on Will on Imagination on Spite on something - anything…

“Crowley, for goodness sake…”

The pain intensifies as he tries to move and the Angel hangs grimly on to him.

“My dear - be still…”

The words are meaningless and his arm is still being gripped and he can’t get up…

“Crowley - please!” There’s desperation in that tone, it’s practically begging, so he tries, he really does, but it’s so hard to hold onto anything for longer than two seconds and make sense of it, but he’s trying…

A palm is cupped along his cheek: it’s careful and soft and it doesn’t help in the least. Crowley’s eyes flicker closed and much of his mind goes dark.

“Come back,” Aziraphale commands, holding the Demon tighter. “Come back!”

The order penetrates the fog of his mind in a way that previous sound had not: that was his angel. Much as he wishes, Crowley has never managed to resist giving Aziraphale anything and he isn’t in a position to do so now. He tries to find an anchor point to start from: something is holding his right arm and it really fucking hurts - most of him does - and he wishes it would stop… Not a good anchor point. Alright, what else? He’s reclining against something soft and uneven. Not much of an anchor point but it’s a beginning. What else? The air is neither warm nor cool, but whatever he’s lying against is warm - the perfect temperature really. What else? There’s loose cloth against his skin; the material itself is finely woven but there’s a lot of it: some sort of robe? Blankets? Hm, never mind that - what else? There is sound close to his ear; it sounds very near but deep at the same time as if coming from under water. Its rhythm is constant: dah-dah dah-dah dah-dah dah-dah… There’s some other noise coming from further off but that sound is nonsensical and full of anguish and he shies away from it: the first sound is comforting. What is that? He feels he should know the answer, that it’s a fundamental part of Creation, of Earth, of Life, of - _heartbeat! _He feels inordinately pleased with himself for working it out. It’s a heartbeat.

So… he’s… lying… in someone’s arms? Why would he be doing that? Bemused but feeling on stronger ground now, he risks paying attention to the other sound again - the anguished one.

“Crowley, I adore you unconditionally - if exasperatedly. No, no, the exasperation is part of your charm, or so I keep telling myself. However, if you don’t wake up I shall never forgive you. I am quite serious, my dear…”

He knows that gentle, fussy voice, even when it’s pained and anxious and babbling. Aziraphale. With a supreme effort he swallows and forces his tongue and lips to work. _“‘Ngel?” _he rasps quietly. “Shut up. ‘M tired.” Crowley hasn’t bothered to open his eyes so he hears the stuttered breath but doesn’t see the expression accompanying it. The hand that had been holding his right arm lets go and gently brushes its knuckles down Crowley’s cheek.

“But you have work to do, my dear. You’ve broken several bones; no doubt you’d feel much more comfortable if you healed them. Do you think you might be strong enough…?”

Broken bones? That would explain why half of him felt like glass: breaking, melting, reforming, and breaking again, second by second. It takes far more effort than he’d like to raise his right hand, and for a terrible moment he feels his fingers shake so badly he can’t align them; he grits his teeth, first finger and thumb touch and he manages to snap his fingers, immediately gasping as half the bones on his left side unbuckle and bind fractures and fragments back together. The effort leaves him breathless and drained; he turns his head towards the comforting rhythm of the Angel’s heartbeat.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale gives him a little shake. “You do know we’re in Sanctuary again?”

That ought to bother him, he knows it ought, but he’s too tired and is blanketed in the Angel’s aura of sunlight and Earl Grey tea and old books. A disagreeable memory worms its way sluggishly into his thoughts, forcing him to ask, “Ccccenotaph - War - did we-?”

“Yes - yes my dear, we did. We prevailed.”

“Oh good,” he says faintly. “Tha’s nice…” The heavy pull of coma no longer makes a claim upon him but the doesn’t stop the pull of sleep. “‘Ngel?”

“Yes me dear?”

“…You here?”

“Always.”

“Good…” he repeats vaguely.

“If I let you sleep, will - will you promise me to wake up?”

“Mm.”

_“Promise me!”_

“Promise,” Crowley mumbles.

“Alright my dear,” the Angel says, stroking his fingers through the hair at Crowley’s temple and then leaning over to bestow a kiss and several teardrops into the tangles of dark copper-red. “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake.”

The clouds dissipate as the Demon drifts back to the depths of sleep, the warmth of Eden’s sunlight following him all the way down.


	26. War And Peace

“Do they still hurt?”

Crowley, good to his word, pulled himself from slumber just shy of a day later, and is now sitting up on the edge of his cot, looking at his hands. “Nah, they just…” he flexes his fingers. “Feel a bit weird is all.” His palms, and his fingers both front and back, are covered in delicate scars: the thinnest hairline cracks like lightning jags of silver. He scowls and touches his thumbs to each of his fingers, back and forth, until he’s satisfied with their dexterity.

“What about your wrists?”

He spares a glance at the bandages still covering both forearms and frowns, a little dart of confusion between his brows. “How did I get those?”

“Ah, well…” The Angel looks unhappy.

“Spit it out, angel. They feel burnt… Oh. Bedlam?” He pulls a face. “What is it with her and grabbing people with blazing molten hands?”

“I couldn’t say, my dear. Are you going to heal them?” he prompts.

Crowley gives a vague grimace of indifference, unwilling to admit how very small and empty he still feels. “Not unless you want me to take another nap, no. Oh don’t fuss,” he admonishes, “I’ll get round to it.”

Aziraphale knows that tone, part annoyance, part defense, and realizes Crowley may be more fragile than he’s willing to portray. Not wishing to be vexatious, he lets the matter drop.

“At least it’s black this time,” the Demon mutters, changing the subject, glancing down at the linen shift that clothes him. “Not exactly stylish though, is it?”

Aziraphale can’t help but quirk a fond smile: Crowley almost destroys himself in a harebrained scheme to save the World, wakes from a month long coma and complains about his state of dress - typical!

“Why are you wearing a toga?” Crowley asks, bemused.

“Oh, it, ah, it’s not important,” the Angel demurs.

“And why is it,” he demands, his fingers carding at the long curls of his hair, “that every time I come here I need a bloody hair cut?”

Bedlam walks out of the cloister garden carrying a small willow basket filled with apples, figs and mulberries. “The Imprint of Original Form,” she says as if it’s obvious. “Sanctuary remembers. But you have a very strong sense of self - it interferes. I could put your eyes back as they were, if you like. And your wings,” she adds very softly.

Crowley looks infinitely panicked: he’s unable to decide whether that is a marvelous cruelty or a hideous mercy. “Er…”

But Bedlam has moved on: she places the basket down upon a table that hadn’t been by the cot previously, along with three fruit knives and three wooden bowls. There is also a jug of something and three clay beakers. “Do help yourselves. The figs are very good,” she tells the Angel.

Crowley pours himself a cup of whatever’s in the jug and then looks at it suspiciously.

“Oak leaf wine,” she says, nibbling on a mulberry. “It’s a remarkable vintage. Despite what befell them, Artiya’il is still a master of their craft.”

_Not very big on wine in Heaven, are they though? No more Chateauneuf du Pape, _Crowley had prophesied. It would seem he’d been right: because Artiya’il (they who remove the memory of anxiety and woe) - the Watcher of the Vineyards - was in Sanctuary.

Bedlam fills the other two beakers whilst Crowley resists the temptation to dip his tongue in his and sips from it instead. The wine is beautifully balanced, neither too dry nor too sweet: it tastes of pears, springtime, and lemon peel with a sherbet _petilant. _He tips his head to the side in acknowledgement of his mistake and takes a longer swallow. “Not bad,” he mutters because a Demon can only be so gracious.

Bedlam sits on a carved wooden chair that appears behind her as soon as her knees dip beneath her skirts, and drinks her wine. She waits until Aziraphale is on his second fig and Crowley his second cup of wine before getting down to business. “Which of you would care to tell me, what precisely in the name of Infinite Firmament has been going on?”

They exchange a look. “You didn’t know?”

“Both sides sent the call out - did you not hear?” Aziraphale asks.

She leans back in her chair like a queen on her throne faced with recalcitrant courtiers. Another sip of wine. “Indulge me,” she proposes.

“Well, ah, Hell - with we believe the aid of Heaven - obtained the Sword of War. They wished to summon and arm the incarnation of War in the - not illogical - belief that once she held Dominion over the Earthly Plane, Famine, Pollution and Death would follow. It’s a rather messy and manual way to kick-start an Apocalypse, but that’s not to say it wouldn’t work…”

“PRINCIPALITY OF THE EASTERN GATE: wasn’t that Sword _your _responsibility?”

“Er…” he utters uncomfortably.

“Did no one enquire what happened to it?”

_“He gave it away,” _Crowley hisses on the edge of hearing, trying not to laugh.

“I - She - She might have asked?” he suggests in a small voice, twiddling a fig stem between his fingers.

“Hm; and no doubt did not ask again,” Bedlam says wryly. “For the Lord is like any other member of senior management who knows if they acknowledge the problem, they will then have to _deal _with it.”

“Er,” the Angel says again. He had always meant to reclaim the Sword once mankind was up and running as it were. He’d just become distracted. Besides, its resonances had attuned with Humanity over the millennia and he could no longer recall it with a snap of his fingers - could barely sense where it was most of the time. It had changed and was no longer his: it belonged to the World. “No doubt…” he agrees weakly. “Well, anyway, there was a general call to arms on both sides, and we knew they were going to be jolly serious about it.”

One brow arches high over the blank fire of her eye. “AND?” she prompts.

“I had a solution that I thought was rather elegant, if I do say so myself, I…”

Crowley has pulled his first finger and thumb together with a slight hiss and a minute shake of his head.

Aziraphale acknowledges the gesture and falters. “Ah, that - that is to say, we thought it best if we took the Sword for safekeeping. Crowley had, had a _fine _idea,” he manages not to choke as he says it, “to banish War by turning her symbol into one of Peace.”

Bedlam’s head tips to the side like her neck’s been snapped and her expression sparkles with interest. “Go on.”

“We took it to the Cenotaph in London,” Crowley tells her, “an’ I stuck it in the top and turned it into a ploughshare. Mostly by screaming at it,” he adds helpfully.

Her eyes narrow at that because she knows the truth is not so simple.

“You’re forgetting the souls of the dead soldiers and the Necromancer,” Aziraphale adds unable to leave that point of contention alone.

“Witch,” Crowley shrugs.

_“Necromancer!”_

“Necromantic Witch?”

“Necromancers are not my concern,” Bedlam counters to stop their bickering.

“She’s bloody mental,” Crowley offers, because whilst it had never been part of his plan to place Mercy beneath Bedlam’s gaze, since they’re here...

_“Hm,” _Bedlam says, the vibration of the word growling ponderously in her throat. “It would seem to me there are currently higher stakes at play…” She raises her head upwards and closes her eyes in prayer. “GANSUUL AHJE IPSHEN EM ITRET? HA’AF PENKHET TJEN IBSUUL IM HA’AF ABESENVECK NEWAJHE, A-ANETJRET?”

There is a moment of acute stillness after she has spoken.

Suddenly Bedlam is upright and rigid, her head thrown back, her narrow neck taut, her wine beaker smashed on the flagstones and piercing golden-white light is pouring upon her from above as her hands curl to fists and blood starts to run from her eyes and nose. It lasts only a handful of seconds and then the light is gone and she is on the ground in a disarray of skirts, wiping ichor from her face onto the sleeve of her Spitalfield’s silk gown.

She lets out a harsh cough of laughter, scuffs her wrist at her nose again and grins. “I have my orders,” she says in a rasping voice, burnt by holy light and grinning with the pain and the purpose of it.

Aziraphale knows the Light of the Almighty’s Gaze when sees it, but he’s never seen it have that affect on one of the Host. “But - but you’re an Angel…” is all he can think to say.

That crescent moon smile again, and she tries to lick the remains of the nosebleed off her lips. “Who told you that? I AM SANCTUARY,” the Eldritch and Pissy Star retaliates. She coughs; flecks of ichor land on the floor but she’s still grinning and just smears the rest of the nosebleed across the back of her hand and her cheek. “AND I HAVE NEW INSTRUCTIONS.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale murmurs because he knows those sort of instructions. They are not the Cherish and Love Humanity sort of instructions. They are the Pick Up This Sword of Righteous Fury sort of instructions. “Ah…”

Bedlam rises to her feet, rises so far she forgets herself and only the tips of her shoes touch the flagstones of the floor. She flings her arms out, hands and fingers canted at violent angles in effort. “LI EM MEH, KEKU-EH NEH KHEM, KIABIT NEH MESEDJ NE NETJER,” she demands. Darkness, blacker than jet, blacker than the void beyond the stars pours into her open palms and then to the space in front of her. She grits her teeth as the Divine Punishment, the once Plague of Darkness that afflicted the Demon Ma’at is wrenched back from the other existence it had been banished to and channeled into something new. This rewriting of reality lasts for perhaps a minute and her shoes hit the floor with a crack once she’s done, causing her to stagger. Her nose is bleeding again. Something - nine feet of pure obsidian sheened horror - steadies her…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Gansuul ahje ipshen em Itret? Ha’af penkhet tjen Ibsuul im ha’af Abesenveck newajhe, A-anetjret?" - Must more fall to Sanctuary? Is it your Will there is War again, Lord?
> 
> "Ii em meh, keku-eh neh Khem, kiabit neh mesedj ne Netjer." - Come to me, darkness of Khem, shadow of the wrath of the Lord.


	27. Deus Vult

_“What the _fuck _is that?” _Crowley demands on reflex.

It looks like the bastard offspring of a coal shed, an anglerfish and the sort of garden shears that only exist in horror films. It’s corpse-ish, chitinous, steel-y. Its head curves down on a concertina neck between wide, muscled shoulders the hue of an oil slick. Its waist is wasp-thin, its thighs long - and there’s nothing betwixt them - only a smooth sexlessness. Its eyes burn phosphor-white. Its hair stands up like a shock of grass, ghost-pale, glowing like moonlight. It has no hands: instead each wrist ends in a set of wicked sheers, long as swords, sharp as hate, gleaming like mercury. It’s all muscle and bone strung together with cat-gut: cheeks and hips so angular they could score diamond. Its pointed jaw contains too many curved teeth: its grin is wide and permanent.

Bedlam wipes the blood from her nose and tips her head back to look at the sheltering nightmare she’s just created. She’s tired but very pleased with herself. “KHEZAPETH.”

Crowley looks baffled. There are four dialects of Heaven; and its name is formed from Kherubic just like his and Ma’at’s. “Doesn’t that - doesn’t that mean ‘Cheese Apple?’”

Bedlam considers. “Yes,” she agrees. She is wearing an odd expression, like a child who’s learnt a new trick they wish to show off. A new trick that will make all magicians weep and that can end civilization…

“Er…”

Sun-fire eyes tilt. “This is my Hound of Heaven as it were, or Diabolical Knight. Only I made him: he belongs to neither Heaven nor Hell - he is loyal to Sanctuary.”

And since that was _her _by her own admission, that was just a round about way of saying the monstrosity was loyal only to Bedlam. Whilst that concept wasn’t as horrific as, say, Gabriel creating something that existed to Serve his Will (Crowley tried and failed to stop a shudder of revulsion dance across his shoulder blades) it was still a very disquieting thought. Surely the Almighty had to have some pretty strict rules about the reformatting of the Universe? “Er…” Crowley repeated. “Don’t you think you’ll get a slap on the wrist?”

“I rather hope so,” she says sweetly. “I do have some words I wish to say.” No one is left in any doubt as to the Hierarchy and Bureaucracy she wishes to bestow them upon.

Crowley tips his head. “Aren’t you afraid She might… lose Her temper?”

Bedlam smiles. “No. She will do as She does - as will I. I am made to fulfill my function: so long as I do so, why should She gainsay me?”

“She - She _told _you to make… _that?” _Aziraphale realizes with a shiver.

A smile, bright as shattered mirrors and broken souls. “I HAVE MY INSTRUCTIONS.” Her tone implies this is not the end but merely the beginning, and what’s more that she’s going to take an inordinate amount of joy in up-coming events.

Crowley mutters a searing phrase with a horrified sort of reverence.

Aziraphale turns to him. “Dear boy, you’re swearing a lot.”

He gestures towards the obsidian nightmare. “Wouldn’t you?”

“In Enoc- Kherubic, I mean.”

“Yeah?”

“I - you - you never used to do that.” The significance of Crowley swearing so fluently in Kherubic when in Sanctuary might have occurred to Aziraphale if he hadn’t been so shocked by the inventiveness of the phrases he used.

“Well there’s a time and a place to say _ai, t’yaz a-kiabit kher biah meshani, _and I figured…”

Bedlam gives an almost silent snort of amusement: she has gone from the center of their attention to the periphery of their little World in a heartbeat.

“Ah.” The Angel looks supremely discomforted.

“You don’t like it.”

“I didn’t say that…”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I - I’d rather you didn’t.”

“So the Almighty won’t burn your ears? Or so She won’t strike me from Creation?” he challenges with a grin.

“I’d rather you wouldn’t,” the Angel says firmly.

Crowley nods. “Alright. I’ll try to remember,” he says without a hint of his usual indifference.

“Principality. Serpent of Eden. We shall soon be receiving guests of the highest order. I believe you might enjoy attending.”

Both make small non-committal noises because they’re not certain how to refuse that sort of invitation and every time they look at Bedlam they see anew the grinning blade-handed monstrosity that’s looming protectively over her.

Aziraphale smiles nervously. “Is it a formal event? Shall we dress for dinner?”

She considers. “Yes, I think perhaps we shall.” She flicks her hand with a roll of her wrist and they are all instantly smartly attired.

Aziraphale wears a cream frock coat and dress trousers in his habitual style: his shirt is white, his bowtie a tartan in cream and blues, and his silk velvet waistcoat is the exact shade of blue Bedlam favours. A little eight-pointed star hangs from his watch chain.

Crowley wears narrow black trousers, a black mourning coat, waistcoat and silk tie. His shirt is Bedlam blue and his tie-pin an eight-pointed star. His hair is tied back in a rakishly messy braid with a black silk ribbon.

The blood and ichor has vanished from Bedlam’s skin, her eyes are khol-rimmed and her hair is a milk-white mane down her back from beneath a flowing silver-starred diadem. Her gown is like something out of a Mucha print: an Art Nouveau take on the Classical robes of goddesses, reimagined in blue silk with embroidered appliqué velvet, delicate drapes of silver chiffon, and with complicated pieces of jewellery pinning it all together.

Cowley and Aziraphale look at one another, then themselves, registering the unfamiliar touches in the essentially familiar styles. (The Demon is slightly discomforted to find he hasn’t been provided with a pair of sunglasses.) “S’pose there isn’t any chance…” Then they look at Bedlam in her role as celestial monarch with a looming shadow of pure nightmare at her back.

“My goodness,” the Angle utters; he’d always loved the artistry and ever-flowing grace of the lines in Art Nouveau.

Crowley, having missed that influential artistic movement due to his nineteenth century depression-nap, says the first thing that comes to his mind which is, “Bloody hell, she’s an elf.” (He decides not to mention the sunglasses - elves probably don’t approve of them.)

“Let’s go to the Great Hall,” she says serenely. “They’ll be arriving soon.”

“They?” Aziraphale dares, but he receives no answer.

Crowley shrugs broadly; he isn’t indifferent to unfurling events, but he doesn’t think either of them currently have a lot of choice in the matter.

The Great Hall is about the same size as a gothic cathedral and decorated in a similar fashion, minus the iconography and the crucifixes. The floor is tiled in elaborate patterns in black, white, and blue. Beautifully carved pillars and buttresses support the vault of the roof, and intricate archways section off two aisles either side from the main space. The aisles are galleried and at each corner, spiral staircases twist upwards. The walls are adorned with complex tapestries between jewel-bright stained-glass windows.

Bedlam leads them to the far end of the hall where three marble steps create a simple dais: she positions herself at the centre. Khezapeth melts seamlessly into her shadow; she gestures for Crowley and Aziraphale to stand at her left and right. There is a single deep tone that echoes dolefully through the space like a cloister bell: the light at the opposite end of the hall splits like a tear in reality to admit Gabriel and Beelzebub, Michael and Hastur, Uriel and Dagon, Sandalphon and an unknown Demon with very long eyelashes who looks extremely discomforted to be there. They stride up the isle, Beelzebub walking almost double time to keep level with Gabriel’s easy pace. They stop before the dais and form a loose semi-circle around it, highest ranking at the centre: none of them are pleased.

Gabriel’s smile is cold. “Aziraphale - my own personal bad penny - always turning up where you shouldn’t be.”

Beelzebub sneers. “And the traitor, Crowley. Perhaps I should have sanctioned Hastur’s actionzz against you.”

Crowley gives a tight little smile and concentrates very hard on not concentrating on the memory of what it had felt like when Hastur mangled his wings and Aziraphale had to heal them.

“We have come as directed,” Michael says, her tone suggesting it is a monumental favour on Heaven’s behalf.

“As have we,” offers Dagon, not to be outdone.

Gabriel claps his hands together. “I’m sure we’re all very busy people…”

“Entities,” Sandalphon interjects helpfully.

“Entities!” Gabriel corrects, trying not to sound annoyed. “So if you could skip the chitchat and tell us what was so important you couldn’t just send a memo, we can all be getting on.” His smile is as bright and impersonal as Heaven.

“I was created after the First War…”

_“Glorious Revolution,” _Dagon mutters reflexively under her breath.

“It has come to the Almighty’s attention you have all conspired to start a second.”

“That is old news,” Uriel counters calmly, waving a hand to show how inconsequential it all is. “Armageddon was averted, in no small measure to the Angel and Demon who stand beside you.”

“There are many,” Hastur cuts in, voice like frogspawn and bile, “who still wish to see them punished for their crimes.”

“They have been given Sanctuary.”

There is silence as the eight consider this, and then slow-warming smirks and grins as they realize what this means. “I’m certain that’s the most satisfactory outcome for everyone,” Michael agrees with cordial efficiency. “Heaven will arrange for another Principality to be stationed on the Earthly Plane…”

“You misunderstand. They are not within my Keeping, simply within my Sight,” she elaborates, snapping the ‘T’ between her teeth.

The representatives of Heaven and Hell are less certain what that entails, but they are certain they don’t like it nearly as much as their respective renegade problems being locked away for all eternity.

“They are my Ambassadors.”

Crowley’s eyes flick sideways to Aziraphale and meet the Angel’s troubled gaze. He would, he thinks, be enjoying this all a lot more if he and Aziraphale were up in the gallery with a box of popcorn and a decent bottle of Cote du Rhone, watching this happen to someone else.

“You have all been complicit in a subversive act against the Almighty’s Plan.”

“Is that the Written one,” the nameless Demon ventures hesitantly, “or the…” before letting out a gargling scream as Hastur immolates him to a puddle of tar and slurry.

“None of you had the right to conspire to begin Armageddon a second time. And to do so in so base a fashion - with only one of the elements ordained?”

Crowley can’t work out if the abhorrence in her voice is for the idea of a second Celestial war or for the fact it was going to be started in such a slap-dash manner. Both, he decides.

“But it izz Written…”

“NO WHERE IS IT WRITTEN THAT HEAVEN AND HELL SHALL SEEK THE DESTRUCTION OF THE EARTHLY PLANE WITH ONLY THE SWORD OF WAR.”

“With respect,” Uriel offers, in a hard tone very far from that quality, “nothing else is Written after the account of Armageddon. In the absence of further instruction, it was decided it would be mutually beneficial if we all followed our last orders.”

Aziraphale suppresses the urge to shudder. In Heaven, perseverance is less a virtue and more a means to its own end. _If at first your Apocalypse does not succeed, try, try again._

“THERE WILL BE NO MORE SUMMONING OF THE HORSEMEN.”

“Look here, missy,” Gabriel tries taking a brisk step forward.

Khezapeth springs from Bedlam’s shadow like a demented jack-in-the-box, sweeping both sets of sheers up to either side of her, en-guard.

Gabriel recoils so violently he almost falls over. “What. Is. _That?” _he asks with shaken disgust.

_“Desss te, maa’aq te, veckkk te,” _the thing spits, the Kherubic rasping though its teeth like sharkskin.

“THERE WILL BE NO MORE ARMAGEDDON. I’ll know if you cheat,” she says sweetly.

“The Almighty will…” Sandalphon starts.

Bedlam immediately strides forward and leans right into his face, Khezapeth at her back. “Go cry to mummy, bully boy,” she offers with almost vindictive relish. “Let’s see what happens. In fact, let’s see what happens now…”

Sanctuary shakes violently and for several painfully pressurized moments, the light seems to bend the wrong way. Crowley drops with a gasp and the Angel manages to half-catch him, landing awkwardly. Aziraphale is on his knees, clinging to the Demon: he feels like a migraine of cosmic proportions is about to blossom in his skull; given Crowley’s pained reaction he’s certain he’s similarly afflicted. “What did you do?” he asks in horror.

She turns her head to regard him and bestows upon him the slow blink of a monarch who need not answer to anyone she doesn’t wish to. “I readied the troops.” Bedlam’s eyes are blazing and her smile is simultaneously the most beatific and disturbing thing that’s ever been witnessed in Creation.

In the sky above the Earth for a few moments, a new and furiously bright star has scientists at Keck Observatory and NASA very concerned.

“I HAVE MY INSTRUCTIONS,” she says in a voice that can end reality.

“Oh _shit,” _says Aziraphale quietly and with much feeling.

“I have an army,” the star continues. “My crusaders. The Knights of Our Lady of Bedlam. BEHOLD,” she says joyfully.

The Universe wrenches violently: 777,777 Celestials - both Pristine and Fallen - of questionable sanity but infinite loyalty manifest, their wings and spears blazing star-fire.

Both Heaven and Hell feel it, and wince simultaneously.

“SANCTUARY IS IMPREGNABLE, INCORRUPTIBLE, AND INESCAPABLE, FOR THE ALMIGHTY MADE IT SO. IF YOU GO TO WAR, SO DO I.”

_“Mutually assured destruction,” _Crowley murmurs with a wince. “The Almighty really _is _pissed off…”

The Angels and Demons exchange looks between themselves and then each other as the meaning of Bedlam’s - indeed the Almighty’s - promise dawns upon them. Should Heaven and Hell war without express instruction, then they are unfit for purpose: Bedlam and the army within her Keeping would work tirelessly to lock away every one of the Lord’s errant Celestial Children within Sanctuary where they could do no more damage to each other or the Universe.

“Remember,” Bedlam says softly, “there is a room here for every single one of you. I can show you if you wish?”

And, had there been a consensus taken, everyone present would have been in agreement: her single, gentle reminder was direr and more dreadful than all of her words previously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ai, t’yaz a-kiabit kher biah meshani!" - Oh, fuck my shadow under a copper crocodile!
> 
> “Des te, maa’aq te, veck te.” - Knife you, skin you, kill you.


	28. Mayfair

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale asks gently as they enter the Mayfair flat.

Crowley shrugs bonelessly, leaning on the front door until it latches closed and then levering himself upright again with an effort. “Tired,” he offers, his standard excuse.

The Angel makes a ‘hmm’ noise. It could be true, but he was aware it was the Serpent’s favourite prevarication: never an out right lie, but a half-truth. Stress did make him tired after all, and even after his time in Sanctuary, the strain of events at the Cenotaph had to lie close under the skin. “Is that all it is, my dear?” Aziraphale presses solicitously, stepping closer.

Crowley laughs, a throaty chuckle that manages not to sound evasive - he’s been practicing. “Probably,” he hedges, finding that whilst he doesn’t want to have a discussion about Feelings™ - especially not his own - he doesn’t want to shut the Angel out either. With an unhinged and sinuous grace he turns and embraces Aziraphale, pulling him close and stooping to bury his face against the Angel’s shoulder. “I don’t - I - I… _Fuck _Apocalypses,” he decides.

“Oh, I quite agree, dear boy. But what about it has you so on edge?”

“It… it messes with things. Us,” he elaborates awkwardly. “It comes between us. Even now - we’re on our side and you still don’t trust me.”

“That’s unjust my dear - I did - I do - I went along with your plan.” But even as he says it, Aziraphale knows that’s not strictly true. He had trusted Crowley, but he had doubted him too, which was almost as damning.

“Went along with it,” Crowley echoes with a dry hint of bitterness against the Angel’s lapel.

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale kisses him. “You must forgive me. I have infinite faith in your ability to come up with some way to wriggle out of any situation, no matter how doomed, but I am not always going to approve or be happy as to your methods.”

“Happy about _my _methods?” Crowley’s head whips back so he can glare at the Ethereal being still in his embrace. “Have you _seen _you with that fucking sword? You’re - you…” _You remind me of being Cast Out - of Wrath - of the Fall, _he wants to say, but he can’t.

Aziraphale fidgets slightly from foot to foot and can’t meet the other’s gaze: with that Crowley has his answer. Aziraphale knows exactly what he looks like - what he _is _with that sword.

“And you were willing to take that role on again?”

The Angel nods soberly.

Crowley’s expression remains taut. “Knowing what it would cost?”

“You were as willing to bargain away your health and sanity…”

_“Not _the same,” he snarls.

“Why ever not?”

_“Because!”_

Aziraphale frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“Welcome to my World,” Crowley snaps with an angry shrug, turning away and refusing to elaborate further.

But something in that frustrated, hopeless gesture sparks understanding in Aziraphale. Crowley had cared for him long before the feeling had been reciprocated. Crowley had endured centuries - millennia - of living with his own doubts and bad decisions where Aziraphale was concerned and was adept at dealing with the consequences. The Demon always circled Aziraphale: it wasn’t predatory, as he’d first assumed, but protective. He orbited Aziraphale like a moon circles a planet, defending it by deflecting asteroid strikes, placing itself in harms way. His own guardian Demon.

Aziraphale approaches again; Crowley looks flighty and high-strung. He places his hands against the Demon’s shoulder and waist; Crowley shivers. “Dear boy, I don’t know about you, but after successfully sabotaging a second Apocalypse - not a claim anyone else can make to my knowledge - and being made Ambassadors to Sanctuary, also a rather singular if unsought honour, I could really do with a drink. Several in fact. It’s been a long month.”

“Doesn’t feel like November.”

“Hm, it’s not. It’s only October 27th. Whilst I had to gnaw the ends of my fingers off with worry as you slept for nearly twenty nine days straight, time in Sanctuary is subject to the singular whims of its Propriortrix.”

Some of the tension drains from Crowley to be replaced by the thinnest sliver of guilt and he twitches a narrow smile. “Only two days? No wonder I’m still tired,” he teases. “Copious amounts of alcohol it is then…”

* * *

The Serpent of Eden opens one eye from where he is sprawled in magnificence on the modernist brute of a sofa in his flat. He turns, enjoying the sunbeam that is falling upon him. "Mm?" he manages, long legs and skinny arms relaxed and echoing the heaviness of serpentine coils. He puts a hand in front of his face and fails to open the other eye. "Nnnn?" he hazards because the sunbeam is glorious but apparently something else wants his attention. 

"Good morning my dear!" The words are voiced in that uniquely irritating tone tinged with smugness that is only made by morning people when they are feeling morally superior to those who believe in getting up promptly at the crack of noon.

Crowley tries and fails to open both eyes at once. "What time is it?" he groans. 

"Just turned seven o’clock. The sun is up, the birds are singing, God is in Her Heaven and all is well with the World." This extra dose of unforced cheeriness is only non-fatal to the Angel because the effort involved in hunting down the perpetrator is too much for the Demon right now. But the on-going clinks and clangs from the kitchen imply that the felon is intent on aggravating his crimes against morning by making breakfast.

"Seven? _Ergh_. Do you hate me that much?" Crowley mumbles into the sofa arm. He tries and fails to leave the sunbeam. "Why are we awake now?" he calls, knowing whatever the answer is he won’t like it.

Aziraphale sticks his head through the kitchen archway. Crowley’s hair is still long from his stay in Sanctuary and now dishevelled after a night on the sofa: it glints in the morning light like rubies, gold and rusted iron. Aziraphale, in part from an innate tidiness, but mostly from quiet another emotion, has to resist the temptation to go over there and start to brush it. "We have things to do and people to see ‘ere we rest this day. Of course, for _you _I should imagine it is usually the other way around…" He disappears back into the kitchen again and emerges a few moments later carrying two plates of Egg Royale, both of which he deposits on the coffee table, having cleared it of glasses and empty bottles with a glance.

Crowley suppresses another groan and expends a modicum of Will to ensure he isn’t about to be ambushed by a hangover: the tail end of last night is something of a blur and he can’t recall how much he bothered to sober up. He’s still captive in the sunbeam but manages a frown. "Seeing things and doing people? Don’t be vulgar, angel," he says vaguely and makes an effort to lever himself upright on the coach. He is approximately successful. "Other than because you’re a bastard," he says wanly, "why am awake right now? There can’t be anything we have to do today - especially not at ssseven AM..."

"There are things that need, well, tidying up, dear boy. Fixing is probably too strong a word, but, soonest started, soonest mended." A faintly sly grin crosses his face. "Besides, after a frankly indolent amount of three hours of sleep, I have been awake since five, done all my invoices and quarterly tax returns, been for a brisk stroll around Green Park, and _knew _you would be ready and raring to go."

Crowley blinks very deliberately; he supposes he should be grateful the Angel slept at all, but that particular emotion just won’t come. "You’re obviously inhuman. I think I hate you," he elaborates. Then he glowers at the breakfast of salmon and eggs, trying to decide whether to eat this month or not. They do look tempting... He rubs his forehead. "Coffee. For the love of Somebody, I need coffee..."

"The drink of addicts, Americans and marketing executives," Aziraphale scolds as he places a steaming cup of Blue Mountain - made in a proper copper coffee pot of course - on the table.

The Demon seizes it with cobra swiftness despite the heat of the cup against his palms and the scalding of the liquid on his tongue. He mutters something which might be thanks or another apparent profession of hate, it’s hard to say, and the Angel knows him well enough to know they’re one and the same anyway.

"So drink up and eat your breakfast. I am sorry that I made a bit of a mess in the kitchen, but needs must when the Devil drives." He chortles to himself. “Not that we’re having any of _that _today..."

"What’s wrong with my driving?" Crowley asks around a mouthful of coffee.

Aziraphale looks at him with apparent surprise. "Oh, I am certain that your driving would be fine, you just never seen to _do _any. Rather you sit behind the wheel, step on the poor benighted accelerator like it was a particularly annoying imp and then abandon responsibility for all subsequent road-borne activities trusting in a combination of the Bentley, other road users and blind serendipity laced with a healthy garnish of terror to get you to your destination safely." He sips his tea and delicately grimaces as he remembers the last few trips he suffered alongside Crowley.

The Demon scowls; he isn’t really sure what there is to complain about. They travelled expediently and always reached their destination with time in hand. To his mind the Angel’s just being picky; but then Aziraphale never really had got on with the Bentley. "Will we be taking an _omnibus _today then?" he asks pointedly. 

And then, ten minutes later: "A bloody _bus _angel, really? You know I was joking about taking a bus…" If more salt was needed to rub in his wounds, the weather was obeying the immutable laws of nature and developed a light drizzle the moment they left the flat. Crowley glares at the bus-stop timetable: it indicated a bus arrived there every six to eight minutes. The same immutable laws dictated that it meant the next bus would be fifteen minutes away.

The Angel smiles serenely. "Such a more civilized pace to travel at, more things to see, more people to... observe. Besides, there are two reasons why the Bentley would be unsuitable; three if you count my wish to remain un-discorporated."

Crowley gives him a long look from behind his sunglasses. "Because I have so _frequently _discorporated you," he pokes.

"I can only ascribe _that _to the Ineffable Plan," Aziraphale huffs.

"Where in Firmament’s name are we going anyway, angel?" The Demon though it was a sign of supreme good will on his behalf that he’d left the sofa in the first place: he has, frankly, been regretting it ever since.

As the bus draws up, Aziraphale smiles and say, "Whitehall. Oh yes, and we must go up to the top deck. This is why your Bentley would have been too stumpy."

"Stumpy?!" The Demon mutters in disgust. There are four things in the World he truly cares for: Aziraphale, the Bentley, his house plants, and the correctly enshrined legacy of Paddington Bear. He wouldn’t admit it, but it rather upsets him that two of those loves are so frequently at odds. None the less, he sighs and hops onto the bus after the Angel.

* * *

Crowley is right, incidentally, Aziraphale really does not like the Bentley. In truth it is not so much _dislike _as the fact he places the Bentley mentally in the same niche as the Archangel Michael. He knows they are superb - even supreme - examples of doing the tasks they are designed for. But his memories of both are besmeared with the utter terror he has felt too often in their presence.


	29. R.I.P

"Mind the stairs," Aziraphale murmurs as they clamber up in the swaying, jerking bus. "I cannot remember if you were responsible for them on order to send more souls to oblivion or whether it was one of mine to put the fear of God into poor sinners…" Swinging around the pole he notes with pleasure that his favourite seat, the one overlooking the steps, is free. He places himself next to the window and takes the time to look around at the other passengers, ready to offer them a nod and a smile should they meet his gaze, but - this being London - they do not.

"Stairs on buses or stairs in general?" The Demon wonders, traversing them with an adroit swagger and then swinging himself round to sit next to the Angel.

"Gabriel would appreciate this. So ... uncomplicated."

"Gabriel? Since when do you and he have any _appreciations _in common? And I still have no idea what ‘this’ is..." He scowls. "Other than a bus. Obviously."

"Oh, I was referring to our fellow passengers on an early morning omnibus at the weekend. Gabriel has a mind that brokers few ambiguities, he likes neat, clean dividing lines; and it’s easy to divide our fellows between the proverbial sheep and the goats. On one hand, we have the saints; those who are all bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Even if they are not wearing fitness gear, they carry the undeniable aura of breathable fabric and sports logo with them." The Angel warms to his theme. "On the other hand, we have those who have not gone to bed yet. More your sort of people whose thoughts, if they go towards artificial fabrics, are likely to veer towards latex rather than polyester."

The Demon pulls a face. When called to sin (he has a quota to fill after all) Sloth is his favourite. "Polyester? That was one of ours actually," he admits. Not that it’s a fabric he cares for. It’s cheap and feels it: it lacks style.

"I had my suspicions, dear boy... Meanwhile, in the middle you have the tired, washed out weekend shift workers whose main ambition at this stage is to get home, get something to eat and go to sleep without anyone messing them around. Rather our sort of people, nowadays."

"Hm," Crowley says, thinking it would be nice not to be ‘messed around’ for once by the ruling Cosmic Forces of the Universe. He’d be able to go back to bed for a start… Might even succeed in persuading the Angel to join him.

Aziraphale smiles and sits up brightly, sunnily beaming at everyone. In turn, the rest of the bus soon comes to the conclusion he’s either A) mad, B) on drugs, or C) a very new undercover police officer. A small faction of the passengers decide he is D) Finnish, because that could include all three of the other subsets.

The bus drives past the neo-gothic splendour of the Royal Courts of Justice and the tourist occupied Parliament Square before turning up Whitehall towards Trafalgar.

The Demon glowers at the rest of the bus, but his heart isn’t quite in it: he doesn’t want to be on a bus at 7.48am and so can’t believe anyone else wants to either. The other passengers assume he is an author of some incredibly hip new best seller. Or a record producer. Or possibly someone soon to take a lot of coke and commit some very questionable life choices. In short, they believe him to be someone who has a Groucho’s membership.

As the bus travels up Whitehall, Aziraphale mutters, "And on your left is King Charles Street, and the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. The building from which a third of the World was oppressed with a mostly benevolent dispassion that was more terrifying than the bloodiest-handed tyrant. Meanwhile, on your right is the Cenotaph, which you may note has scars, gouges and indentations on the top - almost as if a maniacal Demon had been breaking the laws of the Universe by hammering Swords into Ploughshares atop it..."

"Worked, didn’t it?"

(True, it had temporarily cost him his Sanity and almost his life, but he wasn’t going to be so gauche as to mention that if no one else was. Besides, he recognises the Angel’s annoyance for what it really is: fear. Aziraphale had almost lost him, and although all crises had been averted, the fact that they happened at all - might happen again - is deeply unsettling to the Angel’s peace of mind.)

"Yes, it worked and was a worthy, even righteous cause. However: it is called an ‘empty tomb’ for a reason and there are reasons why tombs are sealed." Aziraphale looks sombre. "Besides, sooner or later this will become public knowledge which will raise all sorts of awkward questions. A number of people have already photographed it. But, thanks to some fairly complex manipulation of _Facebook algorithms,” _the words leave a bad taste in his mouth, “no-one else has seen them yet."

Crowley shrugs. They saved the World - again - he can’t bring himself to care if there were witnesses. "No one will believe it anyway, angel. It’ll be one of those, things, whatsits - urban legends! - along with good modern art, the Moth People and the Big Feet."

Aziraphale regards Crowley patiently. "I’m sorry, dear boy, did you miss what I said about open tombs? The Cenotaph is a hallowed place, sacred through remembrance and woe, which was used as the focal point of a ritual involving a Witch calling back a lot of spirits who have every reason to be angry and resentful."

He shakes his head. "She asked, they answered,” he says and knows it to be true. “They didn’t look very resentful about it. They looked - looked..." He trails away, the right word eluding him because sometimes the bloody minded capacity of Humanity for sacrifice and joyously bearing its teeth against the odds stuns him even after all this time. "Besides, didn’t you feel it? I don’t think they’re here any more." He looks at his hands on his lap and the faint crisscross of healed scars on his palms. "They got to right an injustice and save the World." A small lopsided smile. "Most people don’t complain about that."

"I am not concerned about _most _people, dear boy, I am concerned about the _few_. As I said, it’s more tidying up, rather than repair. A simple matter of us both concentrating on realigning - calming - a now troubled sacred place. And then _you _should probably go and say thank you," he adds.

A somewhat startled eyebrow twitches up above the dark of his sunglasses. Demons aren’t good at saying thank-you. Crowley thinks he’s managed to leave the word unuttered for at least fifty years. It’s not that he doesn’t feel gratitude; he simply prefers to acknowledge it via demonstrative acts of petty kindness. Less embarrassing that way. He has a sinking feeling in his stomach warning him this is likely to change. The Angel doesn’t seem in the mood to broker disagreement. Crowley fidgets and tries not to appear petulant.

"You are looking petulant, dear boy, it doesn’t suit you," chides Aziraphale sternly. "All the mending requires is that we go up and lay a wreath like a couple of representatives of some random but neither Occult nor Ethereal organisation who coincidently happen to be in London. I’ll do the healing part, and you keep an eye out for any hostile shades who require placating." He stops and cocks his head to one side. "Or is it the other task you’re pouting at?"

Crowley can’t seem to find an answer; his mouth opens and closes unhappily making incoherent vague sounds and then finally settles on, "Are we there yet?" because when in doubt, childishness is always a fall-back option.

Aziraphale doesn’t deign to answer before five minutes later finally touching Crowley’s shoulder and saying, “This is our stop… We need to pick up the two wreaths and the black armbands I ordered at the florist’s in Charing Cross. Then we’ll walk back,” he explains as they leave the bus. “Shame about the weather, but then it’s only a short stroll down Whitehall…" Aziraphale feels serene and content. He is doing the Right Thing and all is well in the World, apart from the black clad and cantankerous Demon who is slouching along beside him. "Oh, do keep up."

Crowley is a single pace behind him to his left: he knows Aziraphale’s words have nothing to do with his walking speed. The Angel is trying to press betterment upon him. And since being pressed with anything that isn’t another glass of whisky brings out a bratty streak in the Demon, Aziraphale is both righteous and slightly ruffled, like a grumpy swan. The Demon sighs and lengthens the stride of his swagger.

As usual, Whitehall can’t decide whether it’s a sombre and dignified road through the sedate heart of Her Majesty’s Government or an insane overcrowded vehicular death trap seeking to crush tourists like bugs who appear to be under the rather lunatic assumption that the traffic can’t hurt them because they’re on holiday. As a result, twice the pair have to step back to avoid a speeding taxi, being driven with such casual disregard for others that Crowley might well have been at the wheel. On the second occasion, Aziraphale snorts and mutters, "Well _really_," and gives the departing black cab a stiff glance. It’s undoubtedly coincidental that, at exactly that moment, three pigeons choose to bespatter its windscreen. 

Crowley smirks: he finds the Angel’s occasional acts of pettiness very entertaining so long as they’re not directed at him.

They collect the wreaths and sackcloth bands from the florist and return to Westminster. “The Abbey or the monument?” the Demon inquires.

“The Cenotaph, dear boy, I wouldn’t expect you to enter the Abbey.”

He shrugs because he would, but he’s happy he doesn’t have to: it will save his feet.

The actual ‘tidying’ runs as smoothly as Crowley predicted. Those who died hadn’t wanted to sacrifice themselves but meant no harm to the World they’d left behind. They both reverently lay wreaths on the steps to the East and West. Aziraphale bows his head and says a lengthy benediction, leaving Crowley to circle and keep an eye out for the unquiet dead.

There’s only one bitter and particularly stroppy Revenant hanging around to berate them: a sergeant from Ripon who wanted revenge on the descendants of the bloke who slept with his wife when he was at the Front.

The Demon leans away from the particularly irate Spector of a Yorkshire man spitting in his face about the infidelity of women and the betrayal of Judas companions. Crowley grimaces against the tirade.

"It ain’t fair! It ain’t _right!" _Pretty much the perpetual wail of all the shades trapped between Heaven and Hell. "Why did I die when he and his kind grew fat and had their way with my missus? _Why?" _As his shouts grow louder, pedestrians hurrying by start to feel unaccountably queasy and nauseous.

"Look," Crowley warns tightly. "You can go to your ultimate reward, or I can send you somewhere else." His tone implies ‘somewhere else’ would not be nice. "It’s not that I’m not sympathetic, but out of an entire legion of ghosts, you are quite literally the only one making a fuss," he growls. "Which is it gonna be?" He holds up his fingers threateningly, ready to snap and damn the soul to Hell.

Even the most benighted and vengeful soul knew better than to argue with a Demon who has been roused from sleep and not provided with a second cup of coffee. With a dismal final howl, the Sergeant flings down his rifle and surrenders to the peace of Aziraphale’s blessing.

As he fades away, Aziraphale kneels and lays his hands on the Cenotaph in a final benediction. _"It is well that war is so terrible otherwise we should grow too fond of it," _he quotes under his breath. He straightens up and looks at the drizzling sky. "One more little task and you can return to your sunbeam." It’s an optimistic idea: the drizzle is intensifying - London has done with sunbeams.

Crowley gazes at the top of the Cenotaph, scowling and flexing his fingers at the memory of how the Sword had burnt, charring his hands to the bone as he gripped it, screaming at it - at Reality - to change. He rolls his shoulders, uncomfortable and glad of his sunglasses. "What’s next? Who do I owe this..." the word catches in his throat, "apology... to?" he manages.

Aziraphale looks confused. "Dear boy, you do know that it’s possible to have interactions with Mortals that do not need to be followed by an apology? I suggested that you might wish to thank your little _mekhasheph _who did, at the end of the day, pretty much lay down her life at your - well, our - request."

Crowley blinks. Oh, right. It’s thanks, not apology that he owes; although sometimes they seem one and the same. He looks uncomfortable. "It’s not like there’s a Hallmark card for that. ‘Cheers for helping save the World, sorry you almost died...’" he doesn’t sound as sarcastic as one would expect for a Demon; in truth he sounds slightly lost.

The Angel smiles. "Well, in the circumstances, I suspect that turning up to show she has not been discarded like an old clout cloth with a small gift and an acknowledgement of her help will be a start. A quick chat, then your duty is done."

Aziraphale’s direction steadies him: yeah, he could do that and do it in style, that’s not so hard. "I’m not taking the bus to Shamblyland," he warns, "if you’re planning on coming with." His tone implies he doesn’t mind going alone. And then, hands in pockets and shrugging, sauntering in no direction in particular, "What do you get a suicidal Witch for a present anyway? Daggers? Hellfire? An imp assistant?" he muses facetiously.

"I believe that hard liquor is traditional. I don’t feel the need to hold your hand in this matter, dear boy. I believe I shall visit Westminster Abbey to sooth any unquiet souls there. I’ll see you back at your flat, shall I? Toodle-pip!" The Angel turns down the road and scurries off, looking a bit like a well-dressed mole on a mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mekhasheph - witch


	30. Asylum

By the time Crowley has found a shop discerning enough to stock 18-year-old Talisker and purchase a bottle, an idea has occurred to him. Instead of turning towards Mayfair and the Bentley, he goes South and crosses Westminster Bridge, heading towards Lambeth.

The Imperial War Museum is not an establishment to look kindly upon the consumption of alcohol within its halls, but oddly no one seems to be looking at Crowley at all. He opens the whisky and starts to drink as quickly as possible: he doesn’t want to think too closely about what he’s about to do next. He regards the empty bottle and pulls a face. “Not a patch on the 30-year-old malt, but not bad.” He rolls his shoulders, giving himself a little shake, and his wings unfurl: midnight feathers sheened with the stardust of distant constellations.

“Sedjem a-hevet, ai Nebthet ne Hadji’a Ankha,” he intones, the Kherubic rolling naturally from his tongue. “K’seshey en wen dahu-ah er medu hena’ te em ren ne…” he stalls. (Vadjebak Calesh? No! A-anetjret? Still no!) “Ai, Akhet-set!” he finishes. He wonders if it will work; he’s never tried an invocation before.

A white light segments reality in twain like a lightning flash and Bedlam is there, her hands on her hips and her expression dire. “I have duties you know - you’re supposed to be at _my _beck and call, not the other way around. WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

The Demon, unlike five minutes ago, is no longer confident this is a good plan. But Bedlam is right there in front of him, and chickening out whilst muttering something pathetic about _‘just fancied a chat, really’ _seems a far worse plan. To Hell with it; if you’ve gotta go, go with style. “I need a favour.”

The star looks at him.

“There’s this Witch, well, Necromancer…” he starts.

“The mad one.”

“Yes! The mad one! That one - definitely - yes, her…”

Bedlam waits.

“Can you… fix her?”

“Mortals are not my Dominion,” she points out.

“But could you be a - a…” he’s getting desperate. “Patron saint?”

“PATRON SAINT?”

“Of, er, insanity? Or sanity? Or… just her, really?”

Bedlam’s harsh light softens and she looks more like a young woman than a star about to become a super-nova. A quizzical frown dips her brows for an instant and then alights again to take up a more permanent residence. “Why not petition St Jude or St Dymphna?”

“It’s not like I have their bloody phone numbers! And besides you’ve been disinclined to Smite me so far and I can’t make the same claim for rest of the Heavenly Pantheon…”

She grins. “I’m not an Angel.”

He shouldn’t ask, oughtn’t ask, but the question falls off his tongue anyway. It’s a bad habit of his that’s caused him a lot of trouble over the millennia, but he can’t help it. “What are you then?”

“I told you. I AM SANCTUARY,” the star says as Khezapeth materializes like an ink stain on parchment behind her and deliberately folds his shears across her protectively.

Crowley swallows. “I - I - uh don’t - I - I mean…”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Bedlam considers. “Perhaps I should take more of an interest in Earth.” Her head tips alarmingly far to the side. “After all, there were Bedlamites once… VERY WELL,” she decides. “I will be her ‘patron saint’.”

“Nnn,” Crowley manages, unable to work out if he’s just done something incredibly good or really fucking awful.

Bedlam smiles with a flash of small pointed teeth. “GO HOME, LITTLE SNAKE,” she orders before she and the obsidian nightmare vanish.

Crowley blinks behind his sunglasses in the main gallery of the Imperial War Museum, feeling faintly nauseous. “Nnn,” he complains again, poking a finger at the bridge of his nose and the nagging headache beyond it that is seeking to unfurl.

Time starts up again but no one notices the skinny, red-haired man in a black designer jacket who’s carrying an empty bottle of whiskey walk out.

* * *

Mercy had removed the batteries from the doorbell so heard nothing until a voice bellowed up from the street, “Oi - Gutter Girl!” towards the vicinity of the bay window in the front room.

“Gutter girl?” Ben echoes and gets up to peer through the window to see who’s shouting. “Mercy?” he calls over his shoulder a moment later. “Your favourite gothic thot is in the street.”

“What?”

“Bloody bishy fuck-stick’s got designer extensions…”

_“Wash you fucking mouth out,” _she demands in exasperation, hurrying down the stairs followed all the way by Ben’s laughter.

She opens the door.

The Demon is leaning a little awkwardly against the brickwork and holding a shopping bag of the swanky type with the little cord handles that are handed out in West End boutiques. His hair is significantly longer than when she last saw him: the top section is tied artlessly back, the rest allowed to tangle loosely across the shoulders of his jacket. His customary all-black-attire is broken by a dark blue shirt with a spear-point collar. “Hi,” he says in a way that manages to be both charming and faintly menacing at the same time, like a tiger in a very nice suit.

She isn’t sure whether to feel flattered or threatened by his visit - it is not always healthy to garner the attention of Inhuman Things. None the less, Mercy is British and manners have been hammered into her from a young age, even if she does have a tendency to swear like a sailor. “Would you care to come in?”

He appears undecided by the invitation. “Er…”

Behind him, parked at an atrocious angle, the Bentley starts to play ‘Under Pressure’ at high volume.

Crowley whips his head round to glower at his car. “Shuttit!” he snarls.

The Witch giggles and mutters, “Savage.” The Bentley shows her support by playing ‘Strawberry Gashes’ at a more reasonable decibel output. “Love you too, bitch!” Mercy tells the Bentley happily.

Crowley experiences a feeling that all males (or male presenting Occult Beings) of any species experience at least once in their life: that of being unfairly ganged up on by females. “Anyway, look, I just came by to give you this.” He hands her the bag. “To say thanksss. For what you did. At the Abbey. Don’t know if you’re a whisky drinker, probably should have asked…”

She grins at him. “I’m a bloody disaster, I’ll drink anything, me… I assume it worked?” She tries to sound confident but there’s a discordant note of worry in her tone chiming like a cracked bell. “No more Apocalypse?”

“No, Armageddon the Sequel has been canceled.”

_“Sequel,” _she notes quietly, eyes briefly widening. It’s not the sort of information anyone wants to hear.

The black gaze of his sunglasses rests on the bandage wrapped from hand to elbow on her left arm.

“The perils of a Classical Education?” she offers with a shrug. “How else do you raise a ghost army?”

“Aziraphale said you almost discorp- died,” he corrects himself, “almost died.”

“Ah y- er, mmm,” she hedges with a stutter.

He grabs her wrist and raises his fingers to snap.

“Don’t - _I want the scars!” _she says quickly, the words running together.

“…Why?”

“‘I helped save the World with a Demon and an Angel’ isn’t really something you can put on your CV - nor is it something you can talk about at parties! I need to remember it - I want the evidence, the…” she trails off helplessly. She knows it sounds nonsensical but she knows for certain it makes sense to her.

Crowley considers this. “I can leave the scars,” he says at length.

She bites her lip and gives a small nod. It would be nice not to get blood on things and to be able to stretch her fingers out or hold a cup of tea without it feeling like her nerves were being strained to breaking point. She’d spent the past three days with her left arm across her chest, palm resting high on her shoulder: it hurt less that way. “Please,” she says.

The Demon’s fingers snap.

The relief from the pain is immediate: the burning ache subsides until there’s nothing left of it. She flexes her hand, stretches her fingers and huffs a pleased sigh. She knows one must never thank the Fae but isn’t certain about Demonic etiquette. “That’s much better,” she settles on as her politest option and begins to unwind the bandage.

“Have you thought about white?”

“What?”

“Your hair. Have you thought about white?”

“Probably a bit high maintenance for my budget?”

“Huh.” He’s grinning, a wide flash-bastard-grin, infinitely pleased with himself. “We’ll see,” he tells her.

“What?”

But he’s already leaving, walking to the Bentley in that impossibly loose-hipped swagger of his. “Ciao, Gutter Girl,” he calls infuriatingly.

_“Shine, shine your light on me_  
_ Illuminate me, make me complete…” _sings the Bentley joyously.  
_“Lay me down, and wash this World from me_  
_ Open the skies, and burn it all away…”_

Mercy gets the impression of a star, vast and bright and giddy, but this time she has no idea what the Bentley’s talking about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sedjem a-hevet, ai Nebthet ne Hadji’a Ankha. K’seshey en wen dahu-ah er medu hena’ te em ren ne… Vadjebak Calesh? A-anetjret? Ai, Akhet-set!" - Heed my call, oh Lady of Broken Mirrors. I invoke the right to speak with you, in the name of…. Satan? God? Oh - Somebody!
> 
> The last song the Bentley sings for Mercy is 'Nova' by VNV Nation.


	31. The Kitchen

Back in his Mayfair flat, Crowley sits on the sofa for a minute before eventually and reluctantly concluding that his chances of being allowed to satisfy his feline tendencies and doze in the sunlight is limited. The sun’s moved on anyway, the sunbeams dissolved to a light rain, so he takes off his jacket and sunglasses and pulls himself to his feet with a sigh. He can hear Aziraphale in the solarium, praising the houseplants…

The Demon gathers the coffee cups and the remains of breakfast to take them into the kitchen. It’s not that he really does the washing up, but he piles stuff into what he was once reliably assured was a dishwasher, closes the door and then later takes them back out, all spotless and shining clean. He has never felt the need to investigate the matter further so technicalities like adding a tab of soap, or even switching the machine on, remain beyond his ken. 

A bit flustered, Aziraphale intercepts him. "Oh, no need to do that, dear boy, a lovely sunny day is waiting! Why waste any time on petty chores?" 

Crowley eyes him suspiciously: that sounds far too much like something he’d say himself. "It’s raining. What have you been up to, angel?" Now he casts his mind back, he’s fairly sure that he’d been aware of movement in his flat for a while before he had been forced out of the comforting arms of Morpheus at 7am that morning, but Aziraphale exuded such an air of calm beneficence that even Crowley’s paranoid senses (sharpened by time within the literally cut-throat Hierarchy of Hell) had glanced at the ‘fight or flight’ alarm, hit the snooze button, and rolled back over.

"Oh, nothing, nothing, I just don’t think you should go into the kitchen until ... umm ... you have bathed, or, ah, something?" he finishes lamely.

"Are you saying I smell? What on Earth is up with you?" Crowley growls before pushing past the Angel and striding into the kitchen.

Aziraphale wrings his hands.

There is a silence. Not the quiet silence of merely the absence of noise, but the loud, clashing silence of an explosion in a soundproof box or a balloon filled beyond capacity but somehow defying physics to hold itself intact whilst on the verge of yielding to the inevitable… Aziraphale glances nervously at the kitchen entrance, growing more flustered as the unnatural silence stretches out.

Eventually Crowley reappears, his face a mask of rigidly suppressed emotions. His arrival is not quite accompanied by a billowing cloud of menacing smoke so beloved by Elizabethan playwrights, but it’s only the fact that brimstone is a bugger to get out of wall-hangings that’s stopped the Demon unleashing his full inclination for dramatic entrances. "Four poached eggs! Four bloody poached eggs and a bit of hollandaise sauce. That was what you cooked in my kitchen at some ungodly hour this morning. How, I mean _how _can you use nine pans, three casserole dishes and the griddle? Honestly, is it the sodding holy day for Saint Lawrence and nobody put it in the calendar?!" He disappears back into the kitchen. A howl mixing outrage, anguish and sheer incomprehension rises up, like the Kraken finally and sonorously stirring again from its watery depths. _"How? _How can you burn a Le Creuset dish?! They are supposed to be virtually _indestructible_, they have a lifetime guarantee - after nuclear war cockroaches will use them as stylish dwellings - you’re not supposed to be able to _do _that to Le Creuset!"

Aziraphale audibly swallows and tries to put on a jolly voice. "Well, at least it is insured then you can get your money back..." he suggests, even though he’d have been surprised to discover that Crowley had actually paid good money in order to ensure that his cooking space would have caused readers of GQ Magazine to suffer orgasms of kitchen-envy.

* * *

The slightly sad truth is this: Aziraphale really believes he should be an excellent cook. It sounds like the nurturing activity that an Angel should be able to do; it’s possessed of a wholesome ‘loving family gathered around the dining table’ Victorian Christmas card ideal. So he carefully and meticulously read all the best cookbooks, from Eliza Smith to Delia, from Prue Leith to Mrs Beeton to Nigella Lawson to Nigel Slater. He powered up his television to study the cooks on Master Chef, and the Great British Bake-off, even going so far as to watch the slightly distastefully competitive American versions of the same.

Unfortunately, whilst affirming his belief that, on the whole, Mankind was worth saving, they had done nothing to really inculcate true culinary ability into him. As with most things, give him time, and Aziraphale will eventually produce something of near perfection. But cooking tends to go on at its own pace rather than that of Angelic Will, and his refusal to accept ‘good enough’ tends to mean that the process can be messy, complicated and prone to substantial collateral damage on the hobs, surfaces and floor of any kitchen he works in. Besides, given the Angel has no need to eat, added to near infinite resources, and the profusion of fine restaurants in London, it meant that he did not get to practice his skills often, so had an optimistic memory of his capabilities.

* * *

“How have you incinerated - scratch that - _melted _salmon onto the hob?” Crowley wants to know. “Is _your _kitchen always in this state?”

“Oh, ah, no dear boy.” The Angel doesn’t want to admit that he miracles the mess away.

Crowley guesses. “Not even a miracle will save the Le Creuset, angel,” he mutters darkly, picking it up and dropping it into the bin with a resounding crash. “I get up at seven o’clock, at your behest, run errands - at your behest - and even say thank you to someone, and you repay me by destroying my kitchen!” It is difficult to tell at this point whether the Demon is genuinely upset or is just indulging his flair for the dramatic. It is possible that Crowley himself doesn’t know either. “Is that hollandaise on the ceiling? _Don’t answer that,” _he says quickly. “This is one of those exceptionally rare situations where ignorance is bliss.”

The Angel quickly seizes on another topic of conversation that will steer attention away from the culinary war zone of the kitchen. “How, ah, how was your conversation with the young lady? Did you convey our thanks for her aid?”

“Oh, yeah,” the Demon brightens, the Le Creuset forgotten. “Got her some whisky. And I called in a favour.” Crowley is practically radiating pleasure of the preening and self-satisfied variety.

Aziraphale is unaccountably hit with a feeling of foreboding. “Oh? That was very…” Normally in such circumstances he’d use the word ‘kind’ but Crowley can be prickly about such compliments - and besides he isn’t sure how beneficent a favour a Demon can call in. “…very _inventive _of you,” he finishes weakly. “What was the favour?”

“I asked Bedlam to be her patron saint.”

He’s horrified. “You did what?!”

Crowley’s expression and satisfaction level both not only drop but plummet. “I thought you’d be pleased!”

“You thought I’d be pleased that you invoked the Embodiment of Sanctuary and Insanity to become the patron _saint _of a Necromancer?”

“Er… yeah? Are you pissed because I said ‘saint’ or…”

“Our Lady of Bedlam is _not _a saint and ought not be referred to as one, that is a privilege that must be earnt through…”

“Alright - alright! Patron. So it _is _just the ‘saint’ bit you’re annoyed about?”

“No!”

“Oh.” Crowley sounds defeated. “Well what is it then?”

“All of it! It’s so irresponsible - why in Heaven’s name would you do that?”

“I didn’t do it in _Heaven’s _name,” he sneers, not only upset but furious now as well.

Aziraphale had realised his mistake as soon as the word was out of his mouth: he back-peddles swiftly. “No dear boy, forgive me, of course you didn’t, it was a very ill-chosen figure of speech.”

For all his snarling, Wrath had never been Crowley’s sin of choice and he’s easily mollified (even if he does have a tendency to sulk afterwards.) He folds his arms in a stance that’s somehow sarcastic and defensive, and waits.

“Do you not think, my dear, that it doesn’t do to bring Mortals to the attention of Celestial Beings?”

He shrugs. “She came to my attention, didn’t do her any harm.”

“Didn’t do her any harm? She died in the Abbey!”

He stiffens. _“What?”_

“I had to employ quite a substantial miracle to bring her back, if you must know.”

“You didn’t tell me that before.”

“You didn’t ask. I wasn’t certain you cared.” The Angel had faced a dilemma: either Crowley would care and it would upset him, or he wouldn’t care and that would upset Aziraphale. He’d thought it safer to sidestep the matter entirely. (The Principality was immensely brave about nearly everything in Creation but found his courage faltering time and time again when it came to Crowley.)

“I don’t care,” he spat, _“obviously. _Demons don’t. My inability to care has reached such heights of indifference that I incurred yet another debt and the further displeasure of Our Lady of burning stars, fuck-ups and broken mirrors - who still scares the shit out of me I’ll have you know - to request she become a patron to a Mortal I most certainly don’t give a single fucking _damn _about!”

Put like that, Aziraphale realised, Crowley had done something both imaginative, selfless, and rather wonderful. He sighs. “Next time dear boy, could you not stick to a simpler gift like a bouquet of flowers or a nice hamper from Fortnum’s?”

Crowley’s eyebrows do something complicated that almost looks like semaphore. “She’d far rather Bedlam, and you know it.”

“Yes,” he admits. “But it’s not always the best idea to give people what they want.”

_“Demon,” _Crowley utters because it’s part of his job. (There is the unspoken addition of ‘Duh!’ after ‘Demon’ but Crowley would rather discorporate than actually say the word - noise - whatever.)

“Please tell me you didn’t tempt her with…”

He’s appauled. “What do you take me for?”

“One has to check these things,” he says primly.

“Oh, _does _one?”

Aziraphale appears to be moving one step forward and two steps back in this conversation and offending the Demon each time he does. Crowley is primed for a tantrum of epic proportions - and perhaps, the Angel thinks, it is not entirely undeserved. After all, Aziraphale did turn his kitchen into a disaster, wake him up and drag him out on errands, implied he was careless in the manner he’d chosen to avert Apocalypse No.2, told him off for what had - for Crowley - been an exceptionally good deed, and then worried the good deed had been a Temptation in disguise. He ought to know Crowley better than that - _does _know Crowley better than that.

Aziraphale pinches at the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut, his mouth a tight moue of displeasure. “I am sorry, that was entirely undeserved. You see, although your plan worked admirably, I have been unhappy with it from the start. I have blamed you for the difficulties that arose and the gargantuan mountains of worry I have experienced as a result. Which is unjust. Is there anything I can do by way of an apology?”

For a second Crowley is poised to say something unpleasant, but in the next second he’s pulling a crisp linen tea towel from one of the draws and flinging it over his shoulder. “You wash,” he orders, smiling like the World’s grandest bastard, “an’ I’ll dry. _Everything had better be sspotlesss,” _he warns, hissing close to the Angel’s ear.

Aziraphale doesn’t quite meet his gaze but there is a smile in the corner of his mouth now. Contrary Serpent! “Certainly, my dear,” he agrees. It was so supremely _Crowley,_he thinks, to share the punishment he’s inflicted to wring forgiveness.

After the sink has been filled with scalding soapy water and the crockery dumped into it, Crowley, slouching carefully against the cleanest bit of marble counter-top that can be found, has dropped enough of his temper to ask, “So when did you start cooking anyway?”

“Oh,” the Angel smiles, not only because he understands the question to be a sign of Crowley’s general forgiveness, but also as cooking is linked to food it’s a topic close to his heart. “I suppose I first thought about it in the sixteen hundreds after Gervase Markham’s marvellous little book had been published by Mr Jackson…”


	32. The Bentley

Aziraphale’s lips press tightly in faint distaste as he looks at the Bentley, gleaming and somehow taking up two and a half parking spaces. If ever he’s seen a car parked insolently, it’s this one. 

Quite frankly, and Aziraphale is happy to admit it to himself, he has little time for automobiles generally. They always seem so rushed and hurried, the product of an age that wants everything done at once by soulless machines. No time to contemplate the scenery or chat to passers-by, just a driven urge to get from point A to B without considering the trip itself as part of the journey.

And the way people acted in these machines! The selfishness, the anger, the hate directed at other road-users! Nothing would convince him they were not some form of Hell-borne infernal scheme. Added to his essential wish to retain the use of his body and to keep those internal organs fulfilling their truth-in-advertising present location, he has found it hard - even after so many decades - to warm towards the Bentley.

If he’s to be absolutely honest with himself, he’ll also acknowledge that he’s still sulking over the demise of the horse as the preferred means of transport across London. He was an accomplished equestrian and rather enjoyed the admiring glances directed his way, in a properly meek and, not even slightly prideful manner, of course. 

However, he’s aware that Crowley loves his car and is distressed that two of his friends don’t see eye to eye as it were. After the kitchen incident (which his mind skitters off with a sad wail that he’d only wanted to do something nice to show his appreciation) he knew it would be right to fulfil some sort of penance to make amends, so he thought he would give another try at getting on with the terror-inducing mechanical beast. 

Eying it nervously, he wonders if there’s an easier thing he might do (like punching Baal on the nose perhaps?) but, with a visible gulp, he edgily and cautiously approaches the car. "Er, hallo?"

Cars are inanimate objects and cannot hold facial expressions. None the less, something in the way the shadows play across the front grille and the sunlight runs across the top of the front wheel arch is very suggestive of a slight frown and a raised eyebrow: a curious look, but not a hostile one. 

_“You can stand all night_  
_At a red light anywhere in town_  
_Hailing maries left and right_  
_But none of them slow down…” _the Bentley sings quietly.  
_“I seen the best of men go past_  
_I don’t want to be the last_  
_Gimme something fast…”_

There is the faintest hint of sadness in that - or accusation: not in the lyrics or the song itself, but in the way they sound coming from the Bentley. Some peculiarity of its internal acoustics no doubt, that can warp the natural tone of a song… But then that’s ridiculous - acoustics, and especially cars - don’t work like that. On the other hand, this is the Bentley, which has never done anything so prosaic as behave like any other car in its life.

Aziraphale is a little bit startled at the burst of music that erupts in response to his greeting but reminds himself he’s confronted far worse in his time. Reminds, convinces, chivvies, all varieties upon a theme. Thinking back to his horse-riding days, he reaches out and gives it a gentle pat on the bonnet. 

"Oh Heavens," he mutters as he sees the finger marks left behind by his gesture. The sight of a mess left by himself somewhere that was not a kitchen appals the Angel enough for him to forget about his trepidation and pull his pocket square out of his top pocket and apply it diligently to removing all trace of his faux pas. 

Of course, having dealt with that, a couple of other passing marks draw his attention and he can hardly leave them there once he’s noticed them…

The Bentley appears to settle with a haughty indifference, which must have been an illusion or perhaps a fault in the old suspension springs. But the effect was rather like a young lady who, after greeting a gentleman at a party with annoyance, has turned back to engage in conversation, perhaps realising he’s not as ghastly as first feared. After a minute, a new song can be heard; it’s played quietly, almost as if the Bentley is humming under its breath. (Which, the Bentley being unable to breathe, isn’t a very good analogy, but there are precious few accurate analogies for emotionally sentient antique cars.)

_“Mr. Blue Sky please tell us why_  
_You had to hide away for so long (so long)_  
_Where did we go wrong?_  
_Hey you with the pretty face_  
_Welcome to the Human race_  
_A celebration, Mr. Blue Sky’s up there waitin’_  
_And today is the day we’ve waited for…”_

Aziraphale stops and looks at the Bentley, his head askew. He knew of old, Crowley’s attitude towards technology, both electronic and mechanical which was mostly centred on his instinctive avoidance of anything that looked boring or involved more than a passing thought or over five minutes effort. The truth was that most of Crowley’s toys worked because he believed they should which meant that those basic tasks needed by mere mortals, like plugging it in or switching it on, tended to get neglected… This gives him an idea.

"Right, wait here, there’s a good chap. I’ll be back in a minute - two shakes of a lamb’s tail..." He bustles off again, leaving the Bentley on the street, strangely immune to being scraped or dinged by passing traffic. Under half an hour later, Aziraphale returns in a natty canary yellow boiler suit carrying an old-fashioned but immaculate tool box, a quantity of dusters and a slightly battered but original maintenance manual for a Bentley 3 ½ Litre dated 1933.

The Bentley doesn’t seem to know what to make of this turn of events; not that the Angel notices, busying himself setting up along the kerb so the tools and the manual are placed exactly where he wants them and just so.

As previously mentioned, the Bentley is capable, in a limited capacity, of feeling happiness, sadness, anger and fear. But a new emotion is forming: confusion. And she doesn’t like it.

_“Lonely shadows following me_  
_Lonely ghosts come a-calling_  
_Lonely voices talking to me_  
_Now I’m gone, now I’m gone, now I’m gone,” _the Bentley sings out suddenly at a higher volume than the previous songs have been played. It’s akin to someone blurting out a question in panic.

The noise startles the Angel, coming as it does from right next to him. He doesn’t look round, but instead says in a fussy, disapproving tone, “Honestly - don’t you play anything other than beebop? Something Classical would be rather nice...”

The song changes again, immediately and at a higher volume, to the 3rd galloping and frenetic Movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

“There really is no call for that,” Aziraphale mutters, annoyed at the vehicle’s disruptive nature. But then it occurs to him that - to his knowledge - the Bentley has never been to a petrol station in its life: it most certainly has never had anyone look under its hood. It must feel like a pet (not a cat or a dog but something larger - a mutant panther perhaps) confronted with a vet’s check-up for the first time in its life - a life span that’s sidling up towards a century. Perhaps the Bentley isn’t purposefully acting out but is anxious and doing the vehicular equivalent of shying like a nervous horse?

The Angel decides the Bentley is less worrisome and much easier to relate to if he continues to view it in equestrian terms; and so that is what he does: he reaches back into his memories of riding on Rotten Row and simultaneously reaches out to sooth the troubled car. "There, there, old thing, no need to fret, just going to check you over. You’ll feel the better for it, I promise." Still whispering gently, he strokes the bonnet with one gloved hand whilst reaching to open the latches on the bonnet with his other. Unsurprisingly, having not been opened for nine decades, they’re seized shut. "Typical," he tuts, casting his eyes Heavenwards. An attempt at a shifty expression crosses his face; due to lack of practise, it had the unfortunate effect of making him look like a koala who was contemplating retaliating against the keeper who had pulled him out of his eucalyptus tree.

"Oh,” the Angel says aloud, “what is that I hear? Has a kitten become trapped in this car’s engine?! It would take a miracle to open these latches…" And - with that most suspicious sound in the World, a tuneless, innocent whistle - he folds back the engine covering. The whistling stops to be replaced with an intake of breath through teeth beloved of mechanics, electricians, and American surgeons which translates as, _‘Ooooh… fixing this going to be _very _expensive…’_

It’s not that the engine is worn, per se: there are carbon emission advantages in having a car that runs on Infernal Ignorance. But nearly a century’s worth of grime, dust, mud and a number of startled insects have built up and indeed coat all the engine parts. Pleased at the prospects of making something Right, the Angel rolls up his sleeves and, with the aid of one of his greatest inspirations - WD-40 - starts to tackle the muck, still calming the Bentley as he works.

(For her part, the Bentley has quieted from concern into mere trepidation since the Angel opened the bonnet.) 

Aziraphale sets to work with a will, being careful to warn the <strike>horse</strike> car whenever he had to apply a bit of force to remove an especially recalcitrant bit of detritus. He carefully takes out a small colony of beetles with shiny wing-cases, being cautious not to hurt any of them, only to see them beset by pigeons the moment he walks away. He looks on with a little trace of sadness but doesn’t interfere further, as ever mentally chalking his non-interference up to the Ineffable Plan.

Soon he has the engine clean and gleaming on the outside, all of the metal shimmering in the late autumn sunshine. As he scrupulously checks over the components, constantly referring to the old manual, he notes that oddly it seemed being Crowley’s car had protected it from the laws of dynamics and friction. None of the components were actually worn or pitted or in need of replacing - not even the 1926 KLG sparking-plugs.

_Well, Crowley never has been one to obey laws, _he muses.

* * *

Crowley starts the engine, or rather he thinks the engine should work as he puts the keys in the ignition, and the Bentley obligingly purrs to life sounding particularly satisfied with herself. ‘Divenire’ by Ludovico Einaudi starts to play softly, the volume rising as the music begins to swell. Crowley looks perplexed with an edge of natural paranoia only a Demon whose corporation has had one mostly-careful owner from new could possess. “Something’s different,” he mutters.

“Oh?”

“Something’s wrong with the Bentley.”

“Wrong?”

“Well,” he scowls, his mouth twisting as he stutters. “Ye- no - I - there’s - something’s up with the Bentley.”

The Bentley with a _who me? _air of innocence allows ‘Divenire’ to warp into ‘You’re My Best Friend’ by Queen.

Aziraphale’s expression of reassurance is only half-feigned. “Seems quite normal to me, dear boy.”

“Hm,” Crowley allows, grudgingly nosing the car smoothly into the late-morning traffic and accelerating to speeds that ought not be possible for central London. And if the Bentley purrs a little louder than normal and runs a little more smoothly, only the Angel seems to notice and merely smiles to himself - until Crowley take a corner and a No. 14 bus on rather sharply where upon he yelps and grabs at the leather hand strap.

The Bentley itself no longer alarms Aziraphale - he can even understand why Crowley is so attached to it: it’s a beautiful piece of engineering. Alas, it’s still being driven by one A J Crowley who could drive a clapped-out Ford Citroen and make it a trouser-wettingly terrifying experience.

They lunched at Le Manoir, Raymond Blanc’s Oxford hotel and restaurant. Aziraphale’s reasons for suggesting it had been three-fold. 1) The food was, it went without saying, exquisite. 2) The manner house and grounds were beautiful, the gardens well tended and filled with charming statuary and cast bronzes. And 3) he was willing to suffer Crowley’s driving for longer than the usual amount of time to show good willing to the Bentley and to truly appreciate the glow of a job well done as the Bentley’s borrowed Demonic grace had been enhanced by hard work and good old-fashioned elbow grease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bentley sings 'Something Fast' by Sisters of Mercy, 'Fire' by Barns Courtney and 'Mr Blue Sky' by Electric Light Orchestra


	33. Plans

They’d run into traffic at Gerrards Cross and it had been a frustrating crawl to Northholt when it finally started to clear up. Crowley had infuriated Aziraphale by winding down the window, squirming round in his seat and trying to angle his legs out and over the edge of the door so he could lie in the front seat.

“What on _Earth _are you doing?”

“Wanna nap.”

“You can’t put your legs out the window like that!”

The Demon craned his head back. “Why not?”

“We’re on a motor way! What if a motorbike came past?”

“It won’t,” he says with a belligerent sort of certainty.

“It would serve you right if one did and smashed your legs to smithereens!” His mounting annoyance drained as did some of the blood from his face. He’d only just got Crowley back from a too-close flirtation with death and insanity, he’d rather not repeat the experience any time soon - or ever. “Oh - oh for goodness sake Crowley, pull your legs in - I’ll wind down my window and you can put the heels of your boots up on that if you really must stretch out."

“Alright,” he agreed, leaving the Angel to wonder if that hadn’t been what he was after all along.

“You look ridiculous,” Aziraphale tells him once Crowley is sitting sideways, leant against the driver’s door, his legs across the Angel’s lap, his boots hooked up on the lip of the open window.

Crowley shrugs, unconcerned. There is silence for a while, or at least that particular urban silence comprised of a lot of cars studiously going nowhere at all. “Why lunch?” he asks at last.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Why lunch, angel? Don’t think we’ve done lunch since…”

“…Maison Bertaux, Greek Street…”

“I know where Maison Bertaux is - it’s been in the same place since 1871! I was gonna say, since the Blitz. Less likely to have a good, well decent, well passable, well -_meal _interrupted by air raids that way, remember?”

“Rationing,” the Angel utters with recalled misery.

“Yeah, never mind that: why lunch today?”

He vivifies considerably. “Oh! I have plans.”

“Should I inquire?” Crowley teases, painting the plans in a liberal suggestion of lasciviousness.

Aziraphale is smiling to himself and misses the tone entirely. “No,” he says.

Behind his sunglasses, Crowley’s brows dip, puzzled and a touch hurt before he manages to shrug it off. “Oh.” The pleasant lingering buzz he’s been feeling from the company and the two bottles of Le Pin ‘82 they’d shared at Le Manoir begins to fade at an alarming rate. It disappears entirely when the traffic at last begins to shift and he’s forced to sit in a manner that at least gives a varnish of veracity to the idea he’s driving the Bentley. He’s uncharacteristically monosyllabic for the remainder of the drive back to Soho.

Outside the bookshop Aziraphale pauses at the Bentley’s still open passenger window, despite the vindictive angle its parked at. “I have everything we need,” he reassures Crowley.

“What?”

“For this evening.”

The Demon makes a vague noise, trying not to sound too annoyed, the edge of his aura starting to glow like burning paper.

“Then why are you dawdling? We shan’t need the Bentley for the rest of the evening. Come _along _dear boy,” Aziraphale instructs with barely contained excitement. “Action packed action!” he taps the leather upholstery of the Bentley’s door and hurries over to unlock the bookshop.

Crowley stares at the space that Aziraphale had occupied, part of his brain trying to work out if he _was _included in whatever the Angel’s mysterious plans were this evening and the rest of his brain trying to figure out what had just been said. “Action packed… what? How do you…?”

The Angel appears in the still open door of the bookshop, his expression like that of a child awaiting a tardy guest to arrive to his birthday party. “Crowley,” he calls with an edge of frustration, gesturing him to hurry up.

“Oh.” There is a different frown hiding behind his sunglasses as he leaves and locks the Bentley and heads to the bookshop: one of cautious hope.

* * *

“What in the name of Hades is that supposed to be?” Crowley, perched on the edge of the leather sofa, looks in confusion at the mahogany cabinet that Aziraphale has rather ceremoniously just unveiled from under the silk damask piano-shawl that covered it.

The Angel raises his eyebrows. “Surely you can recognise a television! I am fairly certain that you’ve had an awful lot to do with it in your time.” With this, he bends over and fiddles with the single formica knob situated on the front.

Crowley disbelief doesn’t wane as the archaic contraption issues a whine and a bright dot appears in the middle of the ever-so-small screen, slowly expanding to reveal a surprisingly clear picture. He was moderately expecting it to show a girl playing noughts and crosses with a creepy clown, but at least the television signals had emerged from the 1960s and he could make out John Snow, part way through reading the Channel 4 News.

"I thought it might be nice to have a quiet night in. I have prepared some snacks and have a pot of tea on the brew.”

Crowley takes off his glasses, his eyes shining with amusement, the arm of one lens grazing his bottom lip for a moment in coquettish contemplation. “So, Netflix and chill?” 

(The absolute lack of reaction rather spoiled his intention to either shock or entice Aziraphale.)

“Oh no, Great British Bake-Off and perhaps Strictly Come Dancing later. I have rather had to adapt the television, but now it shows the requisite four channels.” He can’t help but give Crowley a dark, sideways look. “I did observe the fifth channel, but I assume that the entire output of that abomination in the face of the Lord is down to you.”

“I assure you it bloody isn’t,” he mutters (it wasn’t), folding his sunglasses and putting them on the bookshelf behind him. “Besides there are loads more now, like ITV100 and BBC…10,” he hazards. For once he’s less interested in the argument and more intent on what it is exactly that his angel’s set on watching. “You do know,” he starts and then stalls. _‘You do know there are flat screens?’ _he wants to ask. _‘You do know that thing you’ve set up looks older than the Bentley?’ _but he doesn’t suppose it’s important. “I mean…” he run his hand through his hair in a display of nonchalance. “I mean why tonight? Normally you can’t pull your nose out of a book to listen to the Wireless, never mind watch a TV.”

“Well,” Aziraphale almost looks coy, “I started watching it - just occasionally, you understand - to keep up with the news and the _zeitgeist _as it occurred to me that there were all sorts of things being mentioned in prayers that I really didn’t understand. I wonder why someone of apparent sanity would want to appear on TOWIE. I was perhaps in safer waters before I knew what on Earth a TOWIE was! And why would someone want a giant eagle to - to poo on the head of Simon Cowell?”

Crowley looks away and makes an odd noise that he tries to stifle with his hand. It most certainly is not (if anyone asks) fond amusement. Then he gives up and laughs outright, delighted at the thought of the Angel of the Eastern Gate having to have any dealings with The Only Way Is Essex.

“It’s alright for you!" Aziraphale huffs. “I must say that I still don’t entirely understand the attractions of this ‘reality television’ but, given that it appeals to the lowest voyeuristic, crab-bucket elements of Human nature, I strongly suspect your side had much to do with it.”

Crowley shrugs easily: he’d created game shows back in 1940 and the first had aired a year later; he’s quite proud of them. It wouldn’t surprise him if a Demon had invented Big Brother.

“I remember the aspirations of Lord Rees that television would educate the masses, not act as a substitute for the worse elements of the Triumphal games of Nero at the Colosseum.” 

A second more expressive shrug. “Popular culture. Bread and Circuses… Although I must say I’m amazed you sullied yourself with TOWIE,” he sniggers. “If ever there was somewhere Angels ought fear to tread it’s certainly there…” A smile that’s less facetious and more sincere. “You still haven’t said why we’re watching things. Do people really pray a lot about baking and dancing?”

Aziraphale wrings his hands. “Honestly, yes they do and, quite frankly, it is a great relief to me. You see, when I was in despair at the crass vulgarity and the apparent wish of the television executives to turn everyone into gaping mindless maws consuming whatever offal is fed to them by pulling their viewers down to the lowest possible common denominator, I came across this whole golden strand of television in which the contestants strive their best to win, but do so without the need to drag others down. They help and inspire each other to do their best. It is truly heart-warming and reminds me of what there is about Humanity that makes them worth saving. I call it, ‘nice cup of tea and a biscuit’ television.”

_NCOTAAB-TV? _the Demon tries out. _Nah, take a miracle for that acronym to catch on... _Then he smiles to himself because out of _some _motivation that is _obviously _spite, he might just make sure it does.

He looks at Crowley, hesitant because there is a particular vulnerability to revealing a beloved hobby or pastime: it opens it up to ridicule. And whilst the Demon wouldn’t be so crass, he may refuse to partake, which would be almost as upsetting. “But… but it is less fun watching it on your own. One’s clever asides and smart comments vanish unheard into the ether, like the trace of a spider’s web in a storm…” He realises he’s in danger of babbling and pulls himself back on track.

“Sometimes it’s nice to just, well, to - to be with someone you love and, you know, watch it together.” He breaks eye contact, afraid that he may have gone too far. The number of times ‘I love you’ has been uttered by either of them can be counted on one hand - definitely two hands if the hands belong to someone who’s lost a couple of fingers in an agricultural accident. Aziraphale rallies, remembering one of his other careful preparations. “And I baked some angel cake slices, just like they did on Bake-Off last week…”

As the Angel disappears into the small kitchenette that sits at the back of the shop, Crowley realises with a sinking heart that the smell of burning that he’s detected is not, as he’d valiantly hoped, some kind of PTSD memory of the bookshop blaze. No, it emanates from the doorway that the Angel had just walked through. “Oh, Somebody give me strength,” he prays. He also notes, although it’s far less pressing, that John Snow seems to be repeating his previous report, verbatim, on the TV set.


	34. Crepes

Aziraphale returns holding a baking tray; there’s a quizzical expression on his face. “I must say that I don’t remember them looking quite like this...”

Crowley had previously been unaware that ‘burnt pink’ was a colour, nor indeed that anyone could manage to melt cake layers into each other as the icing shimmers and twitches in microscopic volcanic bubbles seeking escape from the disaster zone below. He wonders if he should send a memo to Hell advising them to get rid of the lakes of molten glass and have molten angel cake instead…

The Demon - with a herculean expenditure of Will - doesn’t wince: he even manages an interested and encouraging smile like an art teacher who spends their day saying, _‘That’s very good dear - marvellous improvement. Talk me through your process?’. _With a little forewarning he might have surreptitiously attempted an Intervention to improve the Angel’s efforts, but it’s too late now. “Looks amazing,” he says, the statement truer than one might suppose: the Demon is truly amazed at how the Angel managed to get the icing to do _that_. He wonders what the inside of the oven looks like… “Might need a while to cool off though. Tell you what,” he suggests, breezing into the kitchen, “I’ve got just the thing…”

He opens the fridge, grabs butter and eggs and milk as well as a punnet of fresh raspberries and an orange that hadn’t been there previously. An old-fashioned milk pan and a shallow skillet are put on the hob. Crowley puts butter in both pans to melt. A bowl and whisk appear: he cracks several eggs in a business-like manner on the blade of the knife before adding a splash of milk and a more substantial sprinkling of flour, scowling at the substance, daring it to clot or form pocket-lumps without his permission. He grates orange zest into the milk pan, cuts open the fruit and squeezes in the juice too, along with three large tablespoons of Muscovado sugar: he turns the heat up high. 

Crowley picks up the bowl of batter, whisking as he walks (well, struts, he can never do anything as pedestrian as walk) to open a cupboard that had previously contained only condiments but now contains an 1805 bottle of brandy. 

The brandy comes back with him to the hob: a large libation is added to the milk-pan along with a glare that suggests the syrup had better reduce faster if it knows what’s good for it. Still whisking the batter he finds a suitably sized plate, sets it on the sideboard and attends, with a remarkable amount of focus, to the cooking of paper-thin and perfectly browned crepes in the skillet. He has a half dozen in almost as many minutes.

“Grab a plate, angel,” he instructs, “won’t be a minute…” Four of the crepes have orange glaze liberally drizzled all over them, are folded into neat triangles, and returned to the skillet. With an almost schoolboy grin, Crowley half drowns them in brandy before encouraging the flame from the hob to jump into the skillet and blaze off the alcohol in a high haze of blue flame. A serving plate is in his hand because he requires it: the crepes are flipped gently onto it with a swirl of cream and a careless speckling of raspberries. He snaps his fingers at the hob (which obediently turns off,) and swans out of the kitchen. “Crepes Suzette,” he announces, handing over the plate with a flourish, before dropping down on the sofa with the rest of the bottle, a swig of brandy and a lopsided grin.

Aziraphale had watched the performance from the doorway with interest and the occasional pursing of his lips any time Crowley used an Intervention to achieve something. He’s something of a purist at heart: he can’t quite ease the feeling that using Miracles is suspiciously close to cheating. Sadly, the Angel also admits to himself that he may lack the flair and pizzazz for cooking anything that doesn’t feature in Mrs. Beeton.

But once the plate is in his hand, and the scent of citrus and brandy and raspberries and cream and a hint of caramel are wafting together under his nose he decides he has no business in judging how an Occult Being behaves in the kitchen. He summons a fork and takes a mouthful.

Crowley watches with a single minded, unblinking intensity, previously only found in snipers and, well, snakes. He has promised himself that he won’t ask, has felt sure he’ll manage not to in fact, and yet... By the fourth mouthful, when Aziraphale’s expression hasn’t changed from a faintly interested blank look _(what the Hell did that even mean?) _Crowley finds his mouth opening to ask, “Any good?” He quirks an eyebrow at the plate of crepes, a perfect replica in form of his usual attitude, were it not for the colour of his eyes. There’s a pale, lemon-sour edge to his irises, stealing the easy warmth of their usual gold and amber hues. “We could make it a thing,” he offers, oh so casually. “Crepes and, er, nice TV...” He looks away, feeling the icy-hot fingers of mortification nibbling at his toes, seeking to devour him whole.

_Idiot - what were you thinking, you bloody moron? Oh sure, just rustle up one of his favourite dishes: the one he was almost guillotined over - what an excellent fucking idea... _

* * *

Crowley also cooks: and he is unaware that with his chosen dishes, he could put Prue Leith to shame. He’s taught himself perhaps two dozen recipes over the millennia, always the ones that Aziraphale’s praise and sense of wonder was most effusive over. Crepe Suzette is in fact recipe No.27, and to date, the last.

He’s taught himself, usually from no more than a description of ingredients, hastily bartered from housewives or tavern owners, from peddlers and the cooks of grand households, twice from an actual chef and once from - of all things - a recipe book.

Not bound by the Angel’s sense of fair play, Crowley readily uses Intervention to fix things he’s either forgotten about or that weren’t in the kitchen to begin with. If a particular dish calls to be cooked in a Medieval wood-ash oven, that is exactly the way any oven he uses will cook it.

It’s not entirely his fault: Crowley understands cupboards and kitchens and ovens the way he understands the Bentley; that is to say, he requires them to oblige him, and, either out of a sense of self-preservation or happy ignorance, they do.

* * *

“Haven’t had that much practice. Not really Parisian standards…” The sense of mortification that will, he prays to Someone, discorporate him by the time it’s reached his head, has currently reached his middle and is burning the brandy to vapours before it has a chance to make him tipsy. For a second he looks taut enough to break before he claws back an approximation of his normal insouciance with another swig of brandy. _Two can play at that game you bastard! _he thinks, Miracling the bottle full again. But whilst he may now have enough fuel to get tipsy, that doesn’t ward against the silence still stretching as Aziraphale says nothing and just continues, methodically, to eat crepes.

“So this… cake war thing…” his lips press crooked and thin. “D’you know, Digestive biscuits have a secret code? It’s kinda, name rank and number stamped on them in dots. Saying what factory they were made in and stuff ...I mean, if that isn’t a way to win a cake war, Hell if I know what is…” A rocky pause as his brain catches up. “Why do Digestive biscuits have name, rank and number?” he asks, suddenly utterly lost. He turns towards the bookshelf, looking for his sunglasses, but the bookshelves - traitors - have hidden them somehow. “Does that make Hobnobs special operatives...?” He stops, horrified with both the thought and himself, taking a long and desperate pull on the bottle and then hiding his eyes in his palm. “Never mind that,” he commands; the mortification is creeping up his neck now. _Oh good, not long now, discorporation here I come… _“What are we - I mean, it, the - cake wars, right?”

Aziraphale had learnt, somewhere around the 2nd millennia BC, that occasionally - for reasons the Angel had never been able to deduce - Crowley became flustered. Perhaps it wasn’t flustered exactly, but whatever high-strung state it was resulted in the Demon’s brain running a peculiar self-sabotage-overdrive-mechanic: it cycled too fast for him to fact-check his thoughts before they tumbled out of his mouth. The Angel has since developed a zen-like ability to fade out such confusing talk and pluck any morsels that were capable of being answered out of the flow-of-consciousness babble. Had Aziraphale been paying attention, he might have found it difficult to discern even a crumb of sense in all of that tirade, but he wasn’t paying attention at all.

“Good year,” he compliments the bottle before getting queasily to his feet, standing in front of Aziraphale and offering it to the Angel. _We who are about to die salute you... _“Here, I’ll, er, leave this with you.”

The bottle being stuck so prominently in the forefront of his vision finally wrenches Aziraphale back into reality. “I - I’m sorry what you were saying?”

The fatal dose of mortification has swamped Crowley’s Willpower: there is one very important question he wants to ask, but he can’t, his mouth is too full of the bitter taste of humiliation and the knowledge it was brought on his own stupidity. “‘S yours,” he waves the bottle again. “‘M goin’…”

Thankfully, as Crowley mumbles his second statement, Aziraphale is already speaking, his face and voice animated with pleasure. “Oh, no, no thank you dear boy - don’t you see, that would quite unbalance them! And the flavours are so beautifully accomplished that would be _truly _criminal.” He gives a satisfied and ruminative sigh. “I was wondering what could possibly compliment these and I think it can only be a light cup of Tippy-Peko, no milk, only a small slice of orange in it. What do you think my dear? Shall I make a pot in time for the next batch? These are just exquisite, you know, they strongly remind me of those produced by Monsieur Joseph for the Comedie Francaise - I was quite transported. I have to applaud you - where on Earth did you learn to cook?”

Crowley is now quite certain he’s going to discorporate for an entirely different reason: the near fatal dose of mortification has transformed into a crashing, blinding wave of happiness that seems to be filling him with the mental and emotional equivalent of golden syrup and threatening to drown him. “Er, I - it - I… uh… here and there,” the words stumble past his lips.

“And you never told me you could cook crepes!” Aziraphale tries to pout but fails dismally. “I’ve never seen you lift a finger in your kitchen, I assumed you had no interest in the culinary arts.”

“Uh, I - I’m glad you like them.”

“Like them? My dear, they’re sensational, I adore them! And you haven’t even tried them - that will never do...” Aziraphale busies himself spearing a corner of the last crepe-triangle on the fork along with a raspberry and a dab of cream. He stands up and proffers the fork and plate up to Crowley.

Feeling light-headed, Crowley leans forward and delicately eats the mouthful without bothering to take the fork for himself first. He doesn’t find it as wonderful as the Angel does, but he is very pleased to find it’s correct: the flavours are in proportion, exactly to Monsieur Joseph’s recipe when he and Aziraphale ate crepes at his stall set in the plaza beside the Comedie Francaise. Even better than that satisfaction, is Eden’s sunlight positively blazing off the Angel in such quantities Crowley wonders if he’ll wake up with sunburn.

The Angel laughs at Crowley’s expression, puts the plate down on the table and then pulls him closer so he might kiss him on the lips. “Thank you my dear, that was simply lovely. I do hope you might cook them for me again if you feel so inclined?”

Crowley laughs in turn, a shorter but wilder sound before pressing Aziraphale to him and kissing him: fiercely, softly, joyously. At last he pulls away and chuckles. “You taste of crepes.”

“And you taste of brandy!”

“It’s a bloody good vintage,” he says with an infuriating grin, ambling back to the sofa and pulling the Angel and the brandy with him. “We watching dancing or cooking first?”

“Well, I did save both last week’s Strictly and Bake-Off, but Bake-Off is up first, it’s just after the news.”

Crowley can’t help but notice the complete lack of a recording device, be in VCR, digital box or laptop attached to the large heavy lump of brown furniture that’s just run through the Channel 4 News end credits and has moved on to merrily extolling the delights of Dr Oetkers cooking ingredients. He opens his mouth to point this out and then realises that it hasn’t occurred to the Angel he’d _need _anything other than the TV. He had just wanted the television to record the show and had politely asked, if it didn’t mind too awfully, if it could save showing the programme until Crowley was here. The television, naturally, was only too happy to help, which might explain why the news items had been in a holding pattern on repeat.


	35. The Head Of A Pin

The Demon arranges himself both more comfortably and more indecently on the sofa. “Is it gonna be the lady with the hijab? Or the Welsh actor? I liked those...” he says, the smallest bite of challenge in the words daring the Angel to make something of the statement. 

“Oh, do you mean the rather lovely Nadiya Hussein? Heavens, that was 2015 when it was still advert-free on the BBC. They have quite a different set of people in this series.” He addresses the television. “If you’d be so kind as to show last week’s Bake-Off?” A concerned glance at Crowley. “Unless you’ve already seen it, dear boy?”

“Seen… Er…” Crowley’s expression did something rather complicated as he tried to broadcast that he, Crowley, had never - ever - obviously not - watched a cookery show in his life - especially not something as tooth-rottingly wholesome as Bake-Off, at the same time as remember whether he had watched last week’s. “Er… haven’t,” he decides, although he had no idea whether that’s accurate he doesn’t count it as a lie because he hasn’t seen it on an antique television set nor has he seen it with Aziraphale. “So do they fight to the death with cakes, or what?” he mutters, which might be coming on a bit strong for someone who’s trying to pretend they’ve never seen a cookery show before, but for a Demon who’s trying to maintain street cred and not be a bastard about it, it’s about on point.

The next hour meanders past marked by the gentle munching on of another set of crepes (cooked and flambéed during an obligingly long advert break), plus the noble attempt by both of them to sample the angel cake before giving up in a splutter of laughter (mixed with a certain amount of apologies and fretting on the Angel’s behalf.) There’s plenty of back-and-forth of sarcastic asides and encouraging murmurs as to the prowess of the eager but genteel contestants, all fuelled by serious inroads being made into the bottle of brandy.

Eventually the show comes to an end: the result of the contestants’ standing is met with a sly, “Told you so,” from Crowley and a, “Oh dear, and she was so enthusiastic and well-meaning!” from Aziraphale before Crowley saunters into the kitchen to retrieve a second bottle of brandy from a cupboard where no bottle had been previously. 

Crowley remembers, vaguely, being told at tedious length the rules to a drinking game for Strictly made up by a minor but enthusiastic Demon with a very flamboyant dress sense - Ed, was it? Or Jed, or Ted, something like that. Alas, the only two rules he can recall involve drinking every time Bruno stands up or the audience boo Craig and what’s more he has no idea who these people are. Since he’s never let being unsure of the exact details stop him before, he announces to Aziraphale he knows a drinking game and he’ll explain the rules as they go along. (The rules are that they must drink whenever Crowley sees something that he finds amusing, or when he feels like another drink. He never does explain the rules and Aziraphale is either too polite or too tipsy to mention the inconsistencies in the game.) The brandy bottle, obligingly, lasts a lot longer than a bottle ought. This is well and good, or at least well and good if one considers the amount of alcohol needed to get an Ethereal and an Occult Being drunk.

“What sort of parents call their kid Darcy? Wasn’t that an Austin someone-or-other?” Crowley complains before belatedly remembering he doesn’t read, has never read, and WTF is a book anyway? 

“Warlock,” Aziraphale counters quietly.

The Demon winces. “Mm. But anyway, she’s really…” he waves the bottle. “Elegant. I mean…” he trails off. “I saw her dance _Giselle_,” there is an awed and longing note in his voice that he wouldn’t allow had he been more sober. “How do they do that?” he wonders. His head tips to the side and it’s clear that for some long moments he isn’t paying attention to Strictly but to the grace of Darcy Bussell at the Royal Opera House in his memory.

“Well, it’s nothing that can’t be learnt,” Aziraphale says cheerfully.

“Learnt?” Crowley queries like it’s a dirty word.

“Picked up? Oh don’t look like that,” he gestures for the brandy: Crowley hands it over and the Angel drinks. “It - it’s simply form.”

Crowley sticks out an expectant hand to get the bottle back. “Form?” he demands with the perfect enunciation of the very drunk. “What form?”

“Well, dear boy, I don’t believe it can be explained, merely shown.”

Had Crowley been less drunk, the words that pass his lips never would have. “Go on,” he challenges with a smirk. “Show me.”

Aziraphale looks at the Demon, unsure how serious he is. If so much of the produce of Richard Hennessy’s distillery had not been sacrificed to a good cause, he wouldn’t consider the idea given the risk of embarrassment. However, he only slightly unsteadily gets to his feet and takes up a posture. As he does so, the faintly awkward, almost dumpy bookseller fades and becomes a nobler and more confident figure by far. As he sways and steps to the music coming from the television, his Angelic rhythm, tuned to the music of the spheres, lets him feel the notes running through him and amplifies the piece. It’s not a classic _paso doble_ as the legendary Len Goodman would point out, but beautiful in itself. As the dance on the television comes to an end, he abruptly remembers where he is and stops, looking at the screen with a wistful, almost sad expression.

“That was…” He doesn’t seem to know the correct word for what that was; ‘incredibly graceful’ might be a good start but even that feels like damning with faint praise. “I thought your lot…” Again he stops. He wants to say, ‘I thought your lot didn’t dance?’ but halfway through the question he registers that Eden’s sunlight, which had been so beautifully bright scarce moments before, is fading under storm clouds. His heart feels like someone’s hammered a masonry nail into it; he winces and manages not to drop the brandy. “Angel, what’s wrong?” he asks.

Aziraphale stares at the television a few moments longer, before sighing and acknowledging the question. “What’s…? Oh, no, nothing dear boy, not a thing.”

Crowley scrunches his nose and his lip curls in an approximation of an accusatory sneer. “Beware the sin of omission!”

He looks flustered and annoyed and rolls his eyes. “Oh, well really!” A huff, and then he grows quiet again. “It’s silly really,” he tells the floor at last, “just… foolishness.”

Crowley waits.

“I… I always enjoyed dancing. I admire how it lifts the form and bearing, how it gives a sort of transcendence and beauty to those who do it well. I never really studied it or partook much, as it were. But in, oh, 1887 it must have been, I was rather bored so I joined a gentleman’s club in Portland Place. The Hundred Guineas Club - very convivial place. I, ah, finally stuck up the courage to learn the Gavotte - I thought it was jolly good fun once one had learnt the steps. Of course it’s no longer the fashion,” he says with a too bright smile that falls off as soon as its been tacked to his lips, like a poorly hung picture. “I… I rather miss it is all.”

Crowley’s gaze drops with a slight frown to the brandy bottle and he fiddles with the label. “You could teach me, if you wanted.” The words are off-hand but his voice is raspy.

“Oh, I…” the Angel stops before the words ‘couldn’t do that’ leave his mouth. He remembers that Crowley can be skittish about such things: he wouldn’t take the protestation as modesty on Aziraphale’s part but rather as a rebuttal. “I’m not certain I’ll make a decent instructor, but I’m willing to give it a go.”

A thin but widening smile spreads across the Demon’s lips as he feels his angel’s sunlight return. He takes a triumphant swallow of brandy and gets to his feet, snapping his fingers as he rises. The contents of the bookshop don’t vanish, but they fade as Crowley demands they stretch themselves out thin to almost nothing so there is plenty of room for two Angels, one Pristine, one Fallen, to dance between electrons in what now appears to be an empty bookshop.

Aziraphale tuts.

“What? There’s no room to dance otherwise. I’d put us in the Albert Hall or something, but it’s evening - there’ll be a performance.”

There’s a certain logic to this so the Angel lets the matter drop and instead gets on with the business of trying to instruct how to dance a Gavotte.

Crowley is at first not a terribly attentive student; he doesn’t like being told how to stand and how to place his feet or being informed that his shoulders are somehow in the wrong vector in accordance to where they ought to be when he has always found them to be in the perfect place… The Demon wonders if the Gavotte is even cool - it’s certainly not fashionable, not that the two states are mutually exclusive. And then he remembers how Aziraphale had looked when he danced, and he decides that there is definitely nothing more un-cool (other than possibly rabies and Swindon) than dancing the Gavotte and doing it badly. From that moment he becomes a very observant student and the lesson improves considerably.

“Crowley, I do wish you’d put the bottle down…”

“Nah, helps me balance!”

A giggle. “Really dear boy, this would be far easier sober…”

“Mm, but not half as much fun. Show me that - that - cross to the side and turn step.”

“This one?”

The Demon considers as he puts the brandy down on the floor and stands again, not his usual slouch but a promising dancer’s stance. “Yeah, that one, show me that one.”

“I just did!”

“Show me again.”

As Aziraphale obliges, Crowley puts his arm across the angel’s back, grabs his left hand and hooks his left ankle to unbalance him at the end of the turn. At the same moment he unfurls his wings so he can dip Aziraphale absurdly low and still remain counterbalanced. It’s a beautifully dramatic piece of improvised choreography, and in fairness to Crowley it ought to have worked perfectly. But Aziraphale, feeling himself unexpectedly falling backwards at speed, unfurls his wings in panic. The balance breaks and both dancers land in an intimate heap of limbs and wings on the floor.

Crowley scuffs his hair out of his face; somewhere in the course of the lesson the tie has slipped loose, and falling has unbound the ribbon entirely. “Damn it, what did you do that for?” he complains.

“I didn’t know what you were doing, did I? I thought perhaps I’d miss-stepped…”

The look of hurt and baffled horror that accompanies that thought makes the Demon’s smile twitch, aching to bubble into an affectionate laugh. Aziraphale in turn finds himself no longer caring about the floor when he sees Crowley’s mischievous expression and dishevelled hair, and his eyes, fully molten gold with amusement. He laughs. “Trust you to improvise!”

“It’s what I do best,” he says immodestly. The burnished flash of a thought reflected in his eyes and, “Well, one of the things anyway,” he adds wickedly.

“Well my dear, shall we continue?”

“Nah, not tonight,” Crowley says with a shy slyness, still on top of Aziraphale. “I’ve just thought of something better we could do…” he leans down and kisses the Angel as his fingers deftly unfasten Aziraphale’s tartan bowtie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, writing this fic kept me alive for three months after my father died so I don't care if you like it or not. Basically I averted my own Apocalypse with this. And perhaps this fic wasn't as neat or shiny as the other ones - but it worked, and I'm good with that.
> 
> Also, I ravaged Ancient Egyptian to make up Kherubic, in case anyone's curious. I made an entire (shoddy) language! I have an actual dictionary, for Somebody's sake.
> 
> Anyway. Thank you for reading, all comments and kudos greatly appreciated =)


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